Cut me Open
by Unlucky-charm
Summary: Gregory's life had never been anytihng special to him. Being a doctor was never HIS choice, and yet here he was. He needs a way out. What if a certain patient could help? But who he was...Gregory didnt know. Rating might change depending on later chapters
1. Chapter 1

Cut me open

By the Unlucky-Charm

**It kills me not to know this**

**But I've all but just forgotten,**

**What the color of his eyes were,**

**And his scars or how he got them. **

**-Rise Against**

Since I've been a child, my life had been planned out for me. Where I was to study, the people I was to meet, what my job was going to be and even the woman with whom I was to spend my life with; it was all up and ready ,waiting only for my age to ripen so that they, those elements, could introduce themselves into my world.

When in school, the teachers would ask us what we wanted to be when we grew up and every other student in the classroom would shout out occupations such as businessman, police officer, teacher, etc. My answer had always been "I do not know".

And in case you're wondering; no it was not because I hadn't yet found a career that interested me, it was only because my mother and father were still arguing on whether or not I was more fit to be a doctor or a lawyer; two very typical parental choices. So, as a child, I wasn't sure of what to say. I had even approached a counsellor at the age of 14 about my predicament and as I was telling her my story, I could see in her expression that there was nothing she could do to help me. However, she did ask me what I, myself, wanted to become, but I never answered. I mean really, how could I ever tell her, me, a teenager, that I would fancy being a secret government spy.

In the end, my mother was the victor and I was off to medical school. There, I worked hard and now, at the age of 25, I'm working alongside the magnificent Dr. Tachejian. He was a friend of my father's and took me in for practice the second I graduated. I get paid an honest amount, even though I'm not supposed to. I don't think it's fair that I've gotten this far in my career compared to the other medical school graduates my age. As an adult, I knew full well that father had definitely pulled some strings to get me where I am today and that it wasn't the work of my 'exceptional talents'. Even though where I am isn't necessarily where I want to be, I guess I should be thankful.

Other than that, nothing special is taking place in my lonely life so far. My mornings have become a ritual, where I wake up, get dressed and take the bus from my parent's house to the hospital. Once at my destination, I pick up some coffee and join Dr. Tachejian.

In the beginning, my parents had insisted to arrange a car for me. I kindly refused, thinking it very inappropriate to arrive at a hospital in a chauffeur driven limousine. In my opinion, it would have been quite insulting, especially to the sick and suffering people inside the building. I mean, there they are, deprived from any luxury in their bedridden lives while I flaunted my wealth all over the hospital parking lot. Life had already been cruel to them, so why make them feel worse? Even around the patients, I avoided speaking about my personal life outside work and concentrate on other, more general, topics. Surprisingly, several of the doctor's patients spoke mostly of their past; their childhood. It amused me to hear some normal stories of normal boys living in normal towns. It was a comfort to hear that 'normal' things still did existed in this realm. I've been away from anything like that for such a long while, I have forgotten what it was like, not to mention I have fully forgotten all specific events from my OWN childhood. I had tried to concentrate and get some images to break through, but I hadn't even gotten close. Maybe there was something my brain didn't want me to see. Even so, nobody could blame me for being curious.

Caffeine in hand, I walked to the room where the doctor was. I took a sip of the bitter liquid and couldn't help but wrinkle my nose as I forced it down my throat. The beverage had never really appealed to me; I only drank it to stay awake. The only good coffee I've ever had in my life was from a far away place in the mountains. The images of that town were but a blur in my mind. And the memories: cold and painful. Unclear faces of unknown people danced around at the thought of those times, but only one surfaced and could be vividly seen. Who that person was? I could never recall.

"Good morning Gregory." My teacher greeted me when I entered the room.

"Good morning sir. How's she doing?" I asked, pushing the door shut with my back.

"I've improved!" The little girl in the bed answered instead. Her voice was a bit louder than it should be in a hospital, but I didn't have the heart to tell her that at the moment. Abby had been diagnosed with glomerulonephritis, which caused kidney inflammation, and was on the course of making a full recovery. The girl with the tiny brown pigtails sticking out of her head, grinned at me; a heart-warming smile with missing front teeth.

"You sure have Abby." I told her, smiling back.

"Do I get to go home soon?" She asked, looking very eager and excited about the idea. I thought how hard it might be to tell a child like her 'no'. It would crush her young soul and I knew I couldn't bear to see that disappointment. Luckily, in this case, the answer was a 'yes.'

"Your mother will come and pick you up on Friday." Dr. Tachejian explained, keeping his eyes low on the papers he held. The doctor managed to impress me once more with his straight face, like a doctor's should be.

"That's awesome Doc! You know, when I- AGH!"

Abby yelped in surprise and made a small jump in her bed, but she wasn't alone. The doctor and I were also startled at the sudden slamming of the door against the wall of the room, revealing behind it, a heavy breathing surgeon who's name I couldn't remember.

"Dr. Tachejian!" He heaved. "You're needed in the emergency room immediately!"

My teacher put down the papers and thanked the surgeon, but before leaving the room, he turned to me with a smile.

"Gregory, come with me. I'll be needing your assistance."

A sudden wave of anxiety hit me straight in the chest, but I didn't wait any longer and followed him into the hall. I was extremely thrilled about the doctor needing my help, but I couldn't stop myself from being so nervous about it. It was the emergency room, which meant that whatever it was, had to be done quickly, which also meant that I'd be working under pressure. The thought of 'pressure' made my stomach uneasy and for some reason, reminded me of coffee, but I could not decipher the link between those two very different things...

When we entered the emergency room, I pushed away all those thoughts when Dr. Brooks began to speak quickly. I listened in, not wanting to miss any important details. After all, it WAS my first time in the emergency room and I refused to mess it up. This was my chance to prove that I could actually handle this damn job.

"He was present at a shooting incident downtown and was brought over here immediately. The bullet is stuck in his thigh and I'm not qualified to perform the surgery." She explained.

Without even answering her, Dr. Tachejian put on his rubber gloves and began to examine the boy rapidly. He was a young male who was maybe a little older than I was, with thick brown hair and a very strong looking build. If he weren't shot in the leg and yelling in pain at the moment, he'd look very intimidating standing next to my thin body.

"Gregory." I heard the doctor say my name. "Inject him."

"What!" The young man hissed through clenched teeth. "What are you assholes injecting me with? Aren't you doctors? Just cut me open and take the thing out damneet!" He growled in a heavy French accent.

"This is going to help ease the pain." I explained to him and injected the pain killer shot into his wounded leg.

"What the fuck is that! Why can't I feel my leg!" He yelled.

Even in his state, the brunette on the operating table managed to grab onto my white coat and pull me to him. He looked straight at me with his dark brown, bloodshot eyes and held my gaze tightly, preventing me to look anywhere else. As I was forced to stare back and take in his characteristics, I came to one conclusion:

He was terrifying.

Absolutely everything about him was wild. His animal-like stare bore into me and I wasn't sure what to do, or say. I had even forgotten what his question was. His hair was all over the place and he looked tired; starting from the dark circle under his eyes, down to his fidgety movements. Even the noises he was making, the whimpers and the grunts, sounded like they were coming from a bear or a lion, but definitely not a human.

"I need to take out the bullet, so I needed your leg to be numb." Dr. Tachejian's voice cut through the silence I, myself, had caused in the room.

The man grunted and shut his eyes, looking a little more relaxed than he was a few seconds ago. But even in a more peaceful mode, his features were still roughly chiselled. I found myself staring at him rather than at the operation I was lucky enough to be present during. I could learn a lot from it, but even aware of that, I didn't take my eyes off the Frenchman. I was curious, to say the least, about everything concerning him. Where he came from, what he was doing at the scene today, how he got shot, and especially, his name. More than anything else, I needed a name.

Suddenly, his eyes flew open and began to snap left and right, looking at every corner of the room. His panicked expression confused me, notably when he began whispering something under his breath.

"What's the matter?" I asked, putting my hand on his muscular arm. "I suggest you stop moving."

I put more pressure on my hold on his arm, but it was no use because to be honest, the man WAS much stronger than me.

"Where's my shovel?" He said, but didn't look at me and instead kept looking all around the room.

"Your what?" I didn't think I heard him correctly.

"My shovel. Where is eet?" Okay, so I heard him right, but that didn't mean he was making any sense.

The more he came to realise that his...um, shovel was not in the room, the more he began to stir and loose control. It was ridiculous! He was being operated on! How could he move so carelessly!

I was almost certain this man had lost his mind. If I had heard him right, he was, in fact, looking for a shovel. I decided to ignore him, thinking it was a reaction to the shot, but then he started referring to it as a person.

"Where is he?" He growled again. I was beginning to think that maybe he wasn't growling; that his was voice was naturally that husky. Judging by the strong smell of cigarettes coming off of his clothes, I blamed it on the smoking.

'Where's who, sir?" I asked him, a little afraid of the answer.

"My shovel, you stupid Brit!" He yelled, trying to sit up.

I pushed him back down and was on the verge of calling him a French turd, but Dr. Tachejian stepped in.

"Gregory, I need to check up on a patient. I'm gonna leave you to finish this."

I chuckled and nodded at his as he left to clean up. It was a known fact, in the hospital, that the doctor's most hated job was sewing up the wounds; he always left it to his colleagues, not that I minded.

I noticed the French turd had quieted down. While taking out the needle and thread, I glanced at him and almost laughed. His face was twisted in a grimace of pain, his teeth clenched and his eyes tightly shut. His elbows pointed up in the airs, while his hands clutched tightly at his dirty hair.

"Pain killer lost effect huh?" I said in a mocking tone, which I'm really not supposed to be doing.

I took out a new syringe and gave him another dose.

"Merci." He muttered, looking straight at me again.

I began to sew his wound and for some reason, he decided to sit still.

"Where is my shovel?" he asked, only calmly this time.

"Did you have it with you?" I asked, not daring to look at him, in fear of losing myself in his gaze once more.

"Oui, in the ambulance." He answered me, two of the four words spoken in French.

"Well I can go and ask them for it, but I don't think you're aloud to have it in here with you."

"But I will be leaving, non?" He looked worried and had sat up again. I had finished the work a while ago, so him moving was not much of a bother to me. I just found it a little odd that he wasn't completely unfazed about the fact that he was shot and just operated on while being awake. I couldn't help but refer to is as suspicious.

"Nope. You're going to have to stay here for a while." I said, waiting for his reaction.

He stared at me with widened eyes, panic taking over his face and freezing him in place. He moved his mouth but no words came out. What did he think? That we were going to operate him and let him leave out the front door?

"I think some policeman are going to come and interrogate you too." I added. "Weren't you stuck in a shooting or something?"

He didn't answer me. Instead his buried his face into his palms and continued making his frustrated animal noises.

"Is something the matter?"

He looked up and for the third time already, our eyes locked. To be more truthful, it was his eyes that grabbed a hold of mine.

"Listen." He said. "Doctor...?"

"Doctor Yardale. Gregory Yardale." I felt proud to be able to say that, it rolled off my tongue and sounded nice. I had always considered my name as one those that come out of movies or television shows.

"Pardon?" He spoke in French again.

"Gregory Yardale."

His mouth slightly parted, he gaped at me like he was a bit slow. It was as if his brain was processing what I had told him, step by step.

"Bien sure..." He said in his native language, raising an eyebrow at me in a certain fashion where what I had said previously was the most ridiculous thing he had ever heard.

My French was a little rough, but I knew that 'bien sure' either meant 'of course' or 'absolutely yes'.

His gaze froze on some random spot in the room and his expression was distant, in another world. He was in deep thought and wasn't blinking. I was tempted to snap him out of it, but I was still unsure of what this crazy man was capable of doing.

There was a knock at the door and a couple of police officers walked in.

"Good morning doctor." One of them said.

"Good morning."

"How is he?" The other asked.

"He should recover soon enough, but I don't think he's in any state to answer questions at the moment."

"I am fine." He said. "I'll tell you whatever you want."

He was looking at the two officers like he was looking at me earlier, only it didn't seem to have the same effect. The pair was acting normally while I hadn't been able to pull away. Maybe it was because of their training that made them immune to mind games and such.

"Very well. We're going to have to ask you to leave doctor."

With a nod, I stepped out of the room. As I closed the door, I caught one last glimpse of his face, this time frowning and looking even deeper than before. What was he looking at? I felt so very uncomfortable, under the impression that maybe he was seeing something I wasn't able to.

Lunchtime rolled around and I was pulled aside my Dr. Tachejian in the cafeteria.

"Gregory, I have a huge operation this afternoon, so would you mind doing the rounds for me? Also, check on that kid in room 202, he needs to fill out some stuff. The police spoke to me about him; poor kid was just at the wrong place at the wrong time."

Wrong place at the wrong time...

"Also, they brought in this shovel into his room for some reason. They said he had this sentimental attachment to it and needed it in next to him. Just make sure he doesn't make a grab for it or anything."

Sentimental attachment to a shovel...

"Oh and one last thing. He's a major smoker, so make sure he doesn't sneak in any cigarettes into the hospital. We don't need any more problems."

Smoker...

He pat me once on the back and left. I sat down at an empty table with my sandwich, but just ended up tearing it apart without taking even one bite. He was on my mind.

Since I was a young, my parents had taught me never to lie, so I didn't. Only liars have something to hide and I, for one, am no liar. So why did this man make me feel like I SHOULD be hiding something. What is that 'thing', I cannot tell.

On top of it all, I wasn't getting any good vibes from that guy. When I went over what the doctor told me about his interview with the police, I had to restrain myself from yelling out 'he's lying!'. I wasn't sure how I knew, but I was almost certain that he was NOT 'at wrong place and the wrong time', the guy was carrying a shovel for Pete's sake! Sentimental attachment my ass. Not to be prejudice or anything, but 'criminal' was practically written on that guy's forehead.

Finding no point in sitting in the cafeteria doing nothing, I decided to kill some time and work. I passed by the three patients I had to check up on and two of them were asleep. The third, being a VERY old man, had forgotten who I was and had told me to 'get the hell out'.

I was really hoping that this would take a long enough while for me to emotionally ready myself to enter room 202. Standing in front of the room, my hand on the handle, I pathetically began to reason with myself, telling me to calm down and that he was just another patient and that I was making a big deal out of it. Hell, I sounded like a fucking high school student nervous about asking a girl out to the prom! I'm a damn doctor, why should I be afraid of one stupid patient.

"Are you going to come in anytime soon?" I heard a voice speak from the other side of the door...a voice with a heavy French accent, might I add.

As if on cue, I opened the door and let myself in, glancing just about everywhere around the room except at him. I didn't want him to see my face and be able to tell how disturbed I was at how he knew I was standing behind the door, planning how I was about to confess my fucking love to him.

"So, um, I need you to fill out a few of these papers, so that we can know who you are, so if you wouldn't mind..." I stuttered and handed him he sheets.

Looking at me like I was some kind of idiot, he grabbed the papers and held them close to his face.

"Um, doctor, I don't understand what this means." He said.

I bent down at his level next to his face to see what he was pointing at. Turns out he wasn't pointing at anything at all. The brunette grabbed my shirt's collar and pulled me even closer to his face, way too close for comfort.

"Listen to me," he whispered in my ear through clenched teeth. "I have a job to finish and it can't wait, so you let me out right now and I will reconsider slicing your throat open."

"I-I...I can't let you out. I'm sorry a-and even if I did, you won't be able to go that far with that slowing you down." I stammered, jerking my head toward the wound on his leg.

"Okay, let me put it like this." He started again. "You let me out, and I won't kill you."

He sounded like a killer taunting his next victim before cutting them up into little pieces. I gulped in fear and also at the fact of not knowing what the HELL to do. This was NOT in any textbook he had ever read.

"Look, I'm serious here. You're in terrible condition, you're obviously tired and you'll be out of here faster if you answer a few questions okay?"

He grunted and looked like he was ready to destroy me at any second, but I still took it as a 'yes'.

"Okay, what's your name."

This actually wasn't the first question on the sheet, but it was something I was dying to know. I wasn't sure why, but I just had a feeling about it. I suppose I could call it curiosity, but there was something more to it. Some say that a person's name says a lot about them and reveals several aspects of their personalities. It was only natural for me to be looking forward to uncovering the mystery of the man's name, I just didn't know why it was such a mystery. Would it really bother me that much if I didn't find out?

Yes...yes it would. I mentally sighed at myself for being such a fool. I had sunk to a new low, where my life was so boring that I imagined there being any excitement; creating mysteries and detective cases when they weren't even there in the first place. What was I expecting from this? A whole new adventure? Well, guess what me. This is going to end in total disappointment.

"Antoine Plaisance." He said.

And it did.

So there it was folks, my imaginary crime case, my pretend career as a detective already over when there was really nothing to begin with. The name did neither ring a bell nor sound familiar. It was the utter randomness of it that surprised me. When I looked at him, I saw a complex man, with eyes who have seen more than he would ever see in his life. To sum it all up, he was the perfect description of a young man with an old soul. I guess I was expecting his answer to trigger something and start a story.

I couldn't help but be irritated with myself for giving into my own stupid games. I had always been a realist and this was strictly against my beliefs. The thought that the man in front of me could have been someone to just enter my life and change everything HAD entered my mind, and that thought on it's own was enough for me to be ashamed of my own doings.

Without another word, I went on with the examination. I was to check if everything in his body was functioning right and make sure that there were no risks of infection. When I first lay my hand on him, I felt him stiffen, but then he must have realised what I was doing and calmed.

"Are you feeling all right? Feverish? Nauseous? Anything?" I asked, in my regular doctor voice. Dr. Tachejian had actually taught me about that tone. Apparently, it relaxed the patient more and created trust between him and the doctor. The doctor voice was filled with concern and care, making a person feel safe in his or her hands.

"Non. I am fine." He said.

I checked his pulse and then began examining his body for any minor cuts or bruises. I moved his clothes around and ran my hands over his rough skin; he did not like that one bit.

"What the hell are you feeling me up for?" He asked, anger laced in his tone, just like every time he spoke. He snapped his head back and I felt his eyes digging into the side of my face.

"I want to make sure that you don't have any more problems, so please, let me work."

He grunted and lay his head back onto his pillow, shutting his eyes gently and breathing in and out, very slowly. I ignored it, telling myself that it was probably his longing for nicotine and went back to my check up.

I pulled up the black tank top he was wearing, only to find the most toned and muscular stomach in the history of abs. Even when the muscles weren't clenched, each bulge stuck out, forming a perfect six pack that any woman would go crazy over. I blushed when I noticed that my hand had been lingering over his skin for a while now and that I should probably pull away before I embarrass myself again.

"You can stop staring anytime now, Dr. Homo."

Too late.

"I-I'm making sure you're all right." I mumbled, audible only to him and myself.

He grunted again and I hung my head down, eyes glued to his abs again. And that's when I noticed them. On his sides, right under his rib cage, were two HUGE bite mark scars. Judging by the shapes and sizes of the scars, I could tell that they had not been medically treated and had healed on their own a very long time ago. As I looked closer, I took note of the disposition of the teeth and tried to figure out the depth of the original wound. Those were the marks a canine would make, presumably a dog.

"These aren't recent." I stated more than asked.

"Non. I got them when I was about eight years old...or nine, I do not remember."

He looked pensive for a second, but then it disappeared.

"How did it happen, if I may ask."

"Neighbour's..." He mumbled.

"Neighbour's?" I wasn't sure of what he meant.

His tongue lashed out and licked his upper lip roughly.

"Guard dogs." His voice came out even huskier, maybe even deadly sounding.

His voice sounded scary, but his face was more vulnerable than anything else. The Frenchman cringed at his own two words, looking like he suffered when he spoke them.

"Are you..."

"I hate them." He cut my question off with an answer indeed filled with hatred.

He pulled down his shirt and glared at me one last time with his dagger-shooting brown eyes, before turning his back to me and sleeping.

Clipboard swinging along in my arm, I power walked through the hallways of the hospital, causing a draft to brush by everyone who was passing in my opposite direction. My mind was full of questions that I thought could have been dealt with once my examination had ended. Not only did my plan fail, but it also managed to backfire, sending off a series of new and more complex questions to cloud my mind.

Through all of this, I had come to one stupid, inaccurate conclusion, that once again, concerned his name. I still don't know why it interested me so, but it did. It could be considered, by some people, the most useless piece of information (at least in my situation at the present), but for some reason, it was the main thing I was after.

There was no WAY his name was Antoine. I just knew it couldn't be. The second I had realised what the scars on his sides were, I knew he was lying about his name. But why would he lie? And since he did lie, then he must be hiding something.

There I went again, creating my very own Sherlock Holmes novel, but I couldn't help it; if this was the only way to keep me entertained in the next 60 years of my life, then so be it.

Since I started working with Dr. Tachejian, I have had my fair share of patients to work with, and I have never felt anything for any of them like I felt for 'Antoine' at the moment. There must be something up with that man, that was for sure. Only by looking at the elements I knew about him, any idiot would think he was a bit odd. I mean really, the guy carried around a shovel, swore to me in French when he was being operated on, asked me to sneak him out of the hospital like it was a prison, told me he had a 'job' to do and must have some sort of dog fetish.

I wondered if he had someplace special to go. He must have, since he threatened to kill me if I didn't set him free. If it's actually that much of a nice place, maybe I should have asked him to take me with him.

I glanced at the watch on my wrist, telling me that the day was soon to end. To be honest, I wasn't eager to go home, knowing that I would not be able to rest my head, let alone fall asleep that night.

Before I got to go home, I checked on him a few more times but he had fallen asleep. I packed up my stuff and left a note for the night shift worker to keep an eye on him. If he had been smarter, he wouldn't have asked me to let him out; he would had just tried to escape. Now that I knew about his intentions, it was my duty to act upon them.

It was cold outside, and I was greeted with the London rain the second I stepped outside. Luckily, the bus stop wasn't far so I wasn't COMPLETELY soaked.

My house was two bus rides away from my work. If my life had come out the way I wanted, I wouldn't even be going home in the first place. Anything was better than sitting at dinner with that bitch and her husband. I was planning on getting my own place but she guilt tripped me into staying; crying all over me, talking about how she didn't want to lose her only son. The hypocrisy in those words was strong enough to hit me hard and make me take three steps away from her. She managed to fake an astonished face and later on speak of how my reaction had vexed her. That woman never gave me a second glance when I was a child, but now that I was making money, I guess I'm worth something all of a sudden. Even after all the neglect, I still met all of her expectations...and I will never forgive myself for that.

The bus ride was like it was every other day. Same journey, same driver, same people. The passenger's, including myself, were known to each other. I always recognized the faces in the bus, them being the same ones, sitting at the same spot every evening. We acknowledged each others' presence and appreciated the silent company. That's how I was with most of my company: silent. The Antoine guy was maybe the only patient I've ever had any unnecessary conversation with. Perhaps that was because he seemed like such an interesting man, that he earned my time and attention for unneeded words to be exchanged. Or maybe it was because he downright insulted me... either way, that guy was something special. I rolled my eyes. If by special I meant a total nutcase, then maybe I was right about him.

The bus stopped right at the end of the block, forcing me to run down the street all the way to my house, getting my blonde damp hair even damper and my soggy clothes practically dripping. I unlocked the front door of the mansion and stepped in as quietly as possible, hoping to not get noticed until I was up in my room, had disposed of my wet clothes and dried my hair. I just knew that if my mother caught me like this, she'd reproach me of how I was getting the floor wet, or how I should have been responsible enough to take an umbrella with me. I took my shoes off and ran up the stairs quietly, trying not slip on the water that was dripping from my hair. I ran into the bathroom, took my clothes off and dried myself off. I looked at the large bathroom mirror on the wall, seeing my reflection, same as it ever was. I had always thought of myself as a good looking young man. I knew I wasn't the best in the world, but I don't think people ever cringed at the sight of me. I ruffled my blonde hair away from my face, only to watch it fall back into it's original placement. My body was toned, thanks to all the sports and physical training I had done when I was a teenager. It had helped me burn away the hatred and anger I had gathered up for my parents.

"Gregory honey!" My mother's high pitched voice resonated through the house.

"Yes?"

"Get down for dinner!"

"Is dad home?"

"No honey, he won't be joining us tonight."

I ran downstairs, no evidence of having run through the pouring rain, and sat in front of my mother on the dinner table. It had been set by some of the maids in our house and the food was made by a personal chef.

"How was your day, mum?" I asked, striking up a conversation. I knew if I didn't, I'd pay for it later.

"Tiring."

Sure, shopping and hanging out in cafes with your girlfriends should be very exhausting, while I have to deal with sick kids and Antoines.

Seeing that she was not going to speak of WHY it was tiring, I tried something else.

"A gentleman got shot today and I helped Dr. Tachejian heal him." I stated, proud of myself. Of course, it was a lie since what I did as 'help' was gape at the Frenchman while the doctor worked.

"Sweetheart, don't speak of such things at the table." She whined, setting her head in her palm.

She was obviously bored, as if sitting with me for dinner was the most energy consuming thing in the world. I felt like getting up and saying: 'Look, you clearly don't want to do this, and neither do I. So you can go and eat fancy food with your friends and I'll order Chinese. How's that?'

She sighed loudly, a final signal telling me to bring up a new subject. Unfortunately, I really couldn't think of anything she would enjoy speaking of. Come to think of it, there was nothing I would enjoy hearing from her either. We were stuck in silence once more, but I had one more trick up my sleeve: THE subject. I might not have been the smartest thing to ask at the time, but I had the opportunity, so why not?

"Mother...?" I said.

"Yes love?"

"Could I ask you something? Though, you must be honest with me, mum. I'm a grown man and I have a job, I think I'll be able to handle it." I might have went too far there, but I had to let her know before I began the same old interrogation again.

"Gregory, what the devil are you speaking of?" She frowned and set down her fork.

"Mother, how old was I when we came to London?"

"Honey, not this again. You were born here. I thought you knew that."

"Yes, I do, but we went to live in America for a while, did we not?"

She looked hesitant for a second but then nodded.

"Where was it exactly?"

"Someplace called Colorado darling. Denver was the city, I believe. We didn't stay for long." She spoke rather fast, stuffing a stuffed pepper into her mouth the second she finished her sentence.

"How come?" I knew there was a reason who we left, I remembered hearing my father say something of the sort.

"W-Well, the second we got there..." She paused to swallow, only she didn't have any food in her mouth. "There was this war, you see dear? And you were young and w-were in an environment that wasn't very safe...so we had to leave."

She didn't sound so sure of herself and I wondered if she was telling me everything I needed to know.

I remember there being a war. It wasn't the whole country though, it was more of a regional thing... Children were involved and some didn't make it.

"Mother? Where was I when all this happened?"

"Oh darling, I don't know. It was terrible! We had lost you and we needed to get you back and when you finally came back, you had scars and bruises and you had a damn sword in your hands! Heavens knows where you had gotten it from!"

It seemed to me that every time I asked about this story, mother would always add one extra element that was not mentioned before. So I had a sword...? How odd.

I finished dinner and went to my room. I added the new element to my list and went to bed.

Tomorrow was going to be a long day. Especially when I had an Antoine to deal with.


	2. Chapter 2

Cut me open

By the Unlucky-Charm

**And this is how, you remind me**

**Of what I really am.**

**This is how, you remind me **

**Of what I really am...**

**-Nickelback**

The morning rolled around rather faster than I had wanted it to. Seeing that I had only slept but a couple of hours, I wouldn't have minded if the sun had slept in with me. Sadly, I was an adult and I couldn't really ask my mother OR the sun for 'five more minutes'. Not only was my slumber short, but it was restless as well. I dreamt of battles and wars, blood and hatred. And there I was, in the middle of it all, wearing a ripped orange shirt and sword in hand. I looked fearless. In fact, I could even have passed for dangerous. The gleam in my eyes wasn't a joke, but a threat to whoever I was against. My alarm clock had parted me from it all, and I closed my eyes again, hoping that maybe I could go back. Turns out, I couldn't.

I washed up and went downstairs for breakfast, which according to me, was the best meal of the day. Everything just seemed to taste better at the early hour. I began to dig in, not wasting my time in savouring the food, knowing that tomorrow morning it would taste just as good. I heard my mother come down the stairs, still in her bathrobe, looking fairly comfortable.

"Good morning dear." She said, followed by a lazy yawn.

"Good morning mum."

She sat down next to me with her coffee in hand. She gazed into emptiness with her tired, makeup smeared eyes. I always hated it when women didn't take their makeup off at the end of the day, it was disgusting. The proof was right there next to him.

"Gregory dear..." My mother started a conversation for once, meaning one thing and one thing only: she was after something.

"What are you doing on Saturday?" She asked in a certain tone, that came off as threatening to me. So technically, what I had to do was say that my schedule was open, in order to not get my head bitten off.

"Nothing, why? Have something planned?"

Why was I even asking? Of course she did! And it was most probably all to my dismay. I had a hunch of what was coming up, but I wasn't all that sure. It had been a while since she had pulled THAT kind of stunt, so I can only hope that it has fully stopped.

"Well you see, I know this girl your age."

Well there she went again, crushing the small amount of faith I had left in her. I would always tell myself that she meant well and she cared, and when she had stopped trying to send me on blind dates every weekend, I began to believe in her again. Well, I suppose I was wrong.

"Her name is Josephina. She's very pretty and caring. She has a nice smile, she really likes interior design. I believe she is even stu-"

"What's her father do?" I cut in impolitely. I just wanted her to cut to the chase, you know? I know all that bullshit about her isn't what caught my mother's eye and I wish she would stop wasting my time with it. I was sure her daddy was some rich bastard who crapped out millions.

"Gregory! What on earth are you talking about? How is that relevant?" She sounded insulted. Like how much money the guy made was the LAST thing on her mind! As if.

"Mother, I'm late. Are you going to tell me or not?"

She sighed and opened her mouth a few times. She was getting ready to argue, but she knew she had lost this one a while ago. "He's the owner of a prestigious country club." She explained.

Of course he was. How could I expect any less.

I not-so-kindly declined the offer of even laying eyes on that woman, saying that I had work to do and no time to waste on girls. The last part was a lie of course, I really do hope to get myself a wife one day. I just want to see more than money when I stare into her eyes. I want to be able to think about OUR benefits of being together, OUR happiness. Not my parents' gains.

I was able to catch the bus that took me to work just in time. In my subconscious, I was wishing for the vehicle to crash or break down. I couldn't stop myself from dreading what I was to be up against once I got to the hospital. I could deal with old people who won't take their pills, with kids who won't sit still, but Antoine was a whole different issue. Today, I was supposed to take a blood sample from him and I was terrified of what I was to find. There had to be at least some evidence of drugs, I was sure.

Today, I could feel it, was going to be just one of those days. Those days, where its not raining, but the world is gray; when your not tired, but don't feel like moving and when even the slightest comment can put you off. Maybe it was because of this mentality that I was fretting about my encounter with Antoine. He says some hurtful things, even though I shouldn't take any of them seriously. He was probably just this cranky Frenchman who got dumped or divorced or rejected. In fact, I should probably pity him; poor thing might be going through a lot. I smiled at the new found pride in me, even though that meant reducing my patient into the state of a loser, and even my steps seemed to be dragging on a bit less.

When I got to the hospital, I immediately began my search for my teacher so he could let me in on my work for the day. I passed by the receptionist's desk, only to be stopped by her.

"Gregory honey, the night shift worker left you this."She said, padding along the large desk, extending her arm to me, holding out a square piece of yellow paper. With a questioning look, I grabbed the paper and read:

"**Gregory,**

**Thank you for the warning."**

It took me some time to understand what she meant but then when I did I chuckled cruelly and stuffed the paper into my pocket. None could imagine how smug I felt at the moment, knowing that I had foiled the Frenchman's plan of escaping. All of a sudden, a small part of me WANTED to go check up on him, see the discouraged look on his face. Maybe if I was lucky, he would beg...or CRY. I grinned at the image in my head, as hard as it was to imagine. I wondered if I had the nerve to walk into his room and actually inform him of how I had predicted his pathetic attempt of running away to 'finish the job', whatever he mean by that.

You might be thinking right now, that I sound pretty childish and mean. Well, let me tell you, I wouldn't be like this with any other patient. It's just that, Antoine seems a bit more...intimidating to me. And so, I have decided to make the most out of my small silent victory and not care who judges me or how they do it. Besides, how will anyone know?

Across the hall, I saw Dr. Tachejian surrounded by young surgeons asking him fro advice and whatnot. That was another thing the doctor had that I didn't: patience. I could never be able to deal with people speaking so fast and all at the same time. They were so straightforward too! I mean if I were standing in front of such an accomplished man, I wouldn't even DARE ask for any favours without bowing down and kissing the very ground he walks on first. These people right there, were starting to seem very rude to my eyes.

"Gregory." The doctor said when he finally saw me. He fought threw the crowd of green clad doctors and made his way to me. "We don't have to many rounds to do today, I just need you to check on that French kid. Apparently, he tried to escape." He lowered his voice at the last part.

"Yes, I heard." I said, not stopping an evil smirk from spreading across my face.

"So please go and get something out of him. That is all, you can leave early today. " He finished and was off, the flock green following.

I have known since I was a bit younger that, for a child who was raised in a prestigious family, I had a rather crude sense of humour. My father had always reprimanded me about it, followed by him grumbling under his thick moustache about 'damn American kids', leaving me with the supposition that I had picked it up during my short years in Colorado.

I continued my way down the hall, bouncing my clipboard in the palm of my other hand. Room 202 could be seen ahead. The dread I felt in the morning was replaced with the urge to run and burst into his room, pointing and laughing.

I held the knob, readying myself to rejoice in the Frenchman's failure. I slapped on my cockiest grin and entered the room, looking down at my clipboard. I pretended to be completely uninterested with him.

"So, Antoine..." I stopped dead in my sentence, realising that Antoine was, in fact, asleep.

"God damn it." I muttered, putting down the clipboard on his night table.

So...THAT was a fail.

It wasn't a surprise though; God not even sparing me a small laugh was nothing new. I sighed and sat next to the bed, wondering if I should grab his shovel and beat him awake with it. I shut my eyes and fisted my blonde hair with both my hands. The doctor had already done the rounds, so what was I to do? I was here to practice the profession, was I expected to sit here and wait for him to wake up? I wasn't even allowed to do it myself; the man needed his rest.

I watched him sleep, his strong chest rising up and down, stretching the tight black tank top along with the movement. Soft mumbling kept escaping from him and I wondered what he was dreaming of. He looked like the type of man who would dream of blood and hatred; it suited him, not me. Most people looked peaceful in their sleep, however with Antoine it was quite the contrary. The Frenchman, believe it or not, looked even more like threat. IT portrayed how deadly he was, the fact that he could probably kill you in his sleep. The absence of his eyes also played a role. The sweet brown color of his iris's softened, not by much, his features. With them closed and hiding, he wasn't even approachable, more like dangerous. Of course, none of this affected his good looks. I don't think anything could; he was absolutely stunning, no matter how terrifying.

"Jesus..." I thought to myself.

Why was I so obsessed with him? I have never droned on about another patient before in my life, but why him? I suppose he just fascinated me; something interesting in my nothing but boring life.

I grunted at my foolishness and began pacing, a habit of mine when I was stressed. I couldn't sit still, I was too restless already. I needed something for my hands to do, or else I'd end up pulling out all my hair.

I glanced around the room, trying to find something that wasn't hazardous to play around with. So, that excluded the blood testing equipment and the lamp on the table. Of course, I DID consider taking that shovel of his, twirl it around like a drum stick , but what if he woke up? Should I even dare touch the tool without his consent? I doubt he would even allow me to look at it. I wondered why he was so obsessed with it; maybe it just was a REALLY good shovel.

I glanced at Antoine one last time and reached out hesitantly to grab the shovel. I wrapped my fingers around the old wooden part and my other hand held the rusty aluminum handle. It was pretty light and was practically falling apart. Or so it was at first glance. I flipped it over to examine the triangular iron end. It was of a dull silver color, standing out from the rest of the shovel. It was clean and seemed newer than the rest of it. However, as I looked at the metal more and more, it didn't look like iron at all. I ran my fingers over the thin edge and to my astonishment, it sliced right through my skin.

Blood began to ooze out of the cut and stain my palm I red. I grabbed a few tissues left on the night table and began to wipe it off. The metal end was, in fact, made of steel and sharpened in the same fashion of a knife. Now that I looked at it in detail, I noticed how thin the metal end was.

This was all too much, way too suspicious for my liking. I wondered if I could unscrew the top and keep it for safety reasons. I mean, this thing could slice someone's head off!

That last sentence lingered in my head, sounding a but too realistic to be something that COULD happen. This shovel, plus Antoine COULD and probably DID equal murder. I suddenly felt very uncomfortable and would have fancied running off.

The possibility of me being in the same room as a killer, was enough to make me want to soil myself. Sucking it up and gathering more courage, I began to feel around the tool, cringing at every touch, expecting something to blow up or shoot me.

I knocked on the wood and it echoed: it was hollow.

I didn't think twice and with agile, quick fingers, I managed to unscrew the handle off. With a soft click, it was removed.

Antoine must have moved around in his sleep since there was a soft rustling of sheet coming from behind me. I froze in place until it stopped. Once it did, and I was still living, I allowed myself to release the breath I was holding. I settled the rusty handle on that same table without a single sound.

"Oh God, if he wakes up, I'm a dead man." I worried in my head. And with a deep breath, I took a peak into the wooden tube.

I was truly disappointed, to say the least, when I found nothing in there other than rolled up papers. Even though there was a high chance of those being very important pieces of evidence, I was expecting something more along the lines of illegal products, such as weaponry, drugs and whatnot.

With my index, I pulled out the three rolls. I then undid the knots that held them shut and opened them like the town's announcers did in medieval times.

Taking a deep breath, I let my eyes glide over the two pages, only for that same breath to get lodged in my throat. I finally gasped after taking it all in.

Those were government papers.

In fact, they were records of specific people. I felt like dropping them because surely nothing like this should be in my possession, or in anyone's for that matter. If anyone caught me right now, I'd have absolutely no plausible alibi. This was serious. This man, Antoine (or so he claimed to be), had in his 'custody', documents who were linked to criminals, I assumed. Why would he be carrying files on random people?

With a shaky hand, I slid the government sheets back into the shovel. Only then did I notice the latex gloves wrapped tightly on my hands and I thanked God for that. No fingerprints.

The third paper had fallen at my feet. It was a small, dirty piece and was handwritten. By the looks of it, it was a letter from a certain 'Mysterion', clearly a code name. I couldn't really make out what the rest said. Though some words were in English, most were clearly not or were small pictograms. What caught my eye though, was who the letter was destined to.

"**Dear Mole,..."**

A shiver went down my spine, raising all the hairs on my back as it went along. My steady hands were no longer and shook furiously. My mouth was open, I was sure, but neither did the air in my lungs or the words on my tongue ever leave my lips. My eyes filled up with tears; a rare sight it was, seeing me cry. But why? Why was I crying? Was it that I had known all along? Was it because I didn't want to believe it...or that I just couldn't?

But maybe it was the fact that the odd words on the letter had suddenly disappeared and his, Christophe's, face appeared vividly. It was him. He was the boy from the memories, and he was here, laying in the bed behind me, 16 years older.

I felt sick and faint, about to collapse at any second, but I had to be quiet. He couldn't afford to have him wake up, at least not now. I wasn't ready yet and I didn't think I would be for a while. I just needed to check something. I needed to make sure God wasn't teasing; I hoped he wasn't.

My legs wobbly and stumbling, I got to the bed of the French mercenary. Yes...that's what he was, I remembered. The cigarettes, the guard dogs, the shovel; it all made a little more sense. Isn't your mind supposed to relieve itself when things are put straight, because mine was about to shut down. I clutched at the white fabric of his sheets and was very careful not to pull to hard.

"Christophe..." I whispered, sounding so right as I did.

"That's right; Christophe, not Antoine." I went on, trying to convince myself, as if saying it out loud would make it a little more real.

He was laying on his back now with his arms going straight down along his sides. The air that he breathed in came out like a snore, which was because of all the smoking he did. It was only natural since he had started when he was 8. His dark brown bangs were covering his forehead and his eyebrows and his mouth kept opening and closing. Yes, he was very much alive.

Still unconvinced, I reached my hand out and let it linger right above his face for a minute. I guess I could say that I was scared. Scared that maybe if I touched him, he would disappear like some kind of hallucination. I slowly lowered my hand, my heart pounding like crazy, for a second I thought he might have heard it.

I finally was a centimetre away from his hair, reconsidering if this was a smart thing to do. But no, I didn't get this far for nothing. If he turns out to be some kind of illusion, then it's better I find out now rather than torture myself over it for anytime longer.

My fingers traveled down that half inch left and barely touched his skin, when suddenly his eyes just flew open. I yelped and took three rapid steps back. My heart was going too fast, it couldn't be healthy. I cupped my hands over my chest, making sure the organ wouldn't burst out or crawl out of my throat.

Christophe slowly turned his head to me, like some kind of insane maniac in horror movies. He was frowning and looked like he wouldn't mind tearing me apart at the moment. I knew I looked frightened to death, but I didn't try to hide it...more like I couldn't, but that's not the point. The point was that, he was awake, his shovel was laying on the floor in two pieces with 3 pages of paper sprawled on the floor.

"What the FUCK are you doing?" He hissed.

I trembled with all my body, stammering with my words to compose a reply.

"T-the shovel..." I mumbled and held up my hand up to show him the cut that had commenced to bleed once more.

He chuckled mockingly, no humour in the sound, only the anger of a crazy man.

"Yes, it's a blade." He said slowly, each syllable sending a stab through my body. He laughed once again.

"What's wrong? Did it hurt that bad? Is that why you're crying like a beetch?" His voice rose.

He teased and taunted as it boomed through my ears. With an amazing speed, he was up on his feet and slammed me against the wall.

"What did you see?" He whispered, his nicotine tainted breath running over my face. I didn't open my eyes. I had given up on breathing a while ago, more tears running down my cheeks. For the first time in my life, I was too scared.

"Don't cry you asshole! Save those tears for when I torture you to death, you beetch!" He growled, tightening his grip on me, his fingers digging into my clothes and skin. I took in a shaky breath and shuddered gently .

"T-That's not why I'm crying, Christophe."

Once you are brought to earth, you are named. It's something that you can't avoid; like death. And when you are named, that name will follow you around for the rest of your life. It's like a form of identity. Everything you are and ever will be is crammed into one thing: you name. It's also the one word you hear or write the most during a day. At some point, you are so used to hearing it that you don't even realise when someone says it. It all becomes natural to you, like eating and sleeping.

But, judging by the look on his face, I believed that it had been a while the Frenchman had heard his name, seeing that he was just standing there with wide blinking eyes. His grip loosened and it was his turn to take a few steps back.

"Don't...how..." He struggled.

He snapped his head right and left until his eyes settled on the ripped paper on the floor. His darkened orbs shifted back to me and keeping them stuck on me, he bent over and picked it up.

"This." He breathed and paused. "This is what you saw?"

I nodded. He seemed panicked, which meant me knowing his name was nothing good. I feared that might lead him to murder, getting rid of me just to be safe. I wondered if I told him the whole story that maybe he'd remember our time together and spare me.

"Then how the HELL do you know my name?" He cut through my thoughts with a trembling voice, showing signs of what was either insanity or warnings of danger coming my way.

He was obviously in an unstable state, which caused me a huge deal of trouble in formulating an answer for him. Should I slow down and save the full tale for later, answering him curtly for now? Or should I immediately awaken his memories and remind him of how close we used to be?

The more we stood there, staring at each other in a mind breaking silence, the more everything registered into my head. It was like clicking the 'refresh' button on a computer; every time the name was uttered in my mind, a series of new flashbacks took place.

How we had worked on the field together behind our mothers' backs, how he always smoked and complained about religion; these were not common happy reflections on one's childhood, no, that was for sure, but it balanced out since Christophe and I were never really happy as children. Though, looking back now, we had a lot of good times together, as miserable as we claimed to be.

The one and only sad memory was the day I received news of his death by a classmate. I don't recall his name, but he had told me my best friend had been 'eaten' by guard dogs. Of course, I knew the dogs had surely not 'eaten' him since it is against their nature, but DID have the capability of killing him. The next day, I left for Britain and never got to say goodbye. It had been dreadful for my child self, I was sure, and was probably why I had blocked this part of my life out, leaving Christophe as nothing but a blur in the depths of my subconscious for so long.

As the water refilled my eyes, I had a. Instant epiphany which caused me to stop mid-breakdown.

"Weren't you dead?" I cried, my voice coming out in a high pitch.

Still amid agitation and confusion, the Frenchman kept his alarmed expression on, only adding to it a raised eyebrow. That had said enough on its own.

I cleared my throat. "Um, the guard dogs, didn't they kill you. We were like nine...?" My squeaky voice had apparently decided to linger.

The one eyebrow of his went down and instead of looking hysterical like he was for the past few minutes, he seemed to be taken aback by what I had just said. Could I have possibly triggered something? Hopefully something that could get me somewhere with this man...

"You beetch!" He sneered. "You think a couple of MUTS can bring me down! I was but passed out, mon Cher! I had lost a lot of blood!"

Halfway through his sentence, he sounded insulted by my assumption of his cause of death, but then during the other half, it was more like he was explaining himself to me. It reminded me of young student, desperately trying to convince the teacher that he in fact had NOT flipped her off.

"How do you remember?" I asked, simply because I wanted to know.

"I remember because I was stuck in the hospital for a few weeks, which I hope will not REPEAT itself, hm?" Yes, I got what he meant but that didn't change the fact that I was not letting him out any time soon. "I'm a trained agent, for Pete's sake!" He chuckled sarcastically.

His whole face softened, but he must have seen me noticed because his frown automatically reappeared.

"Putting that aside." He spat at me and suddenly I was pinned against the wall again. "How do you know my name you British twat!"

Knowing that the person in front of me was Christophe might have been the reason of my sudden display on nonchalance and calm. I sighed, rolling my eyes and smirking slowly with half lidded eyes.

"Well Mole, I'm rather insulted that you would call your best friend by such a name. On top of that, I don't think you even remember me." My voice had returned to normal and was rather casual comparing to the position I was currently in.

"Don't speak to me in riddles you beetch." He said, French accent as present as ever.

"I'm not. I'm Gregory, remember? We used to work together? I had a sword... and you had that." I said and pointed my chin at the shovel since I couldn't really move my arms at the moment.

I felt him slightly relax over me, glancing at his shovel and then back at me.

"You were blonde." He stated.

"Yes, and still am, sir." I said, sounding like a smartass.

"I know. Don't treat me like an idiot!" He spat, which only resulted in me grinning again. He ignored it and went on. "Orange shirt, sabre, after all the girls..." He mumbled, staring off into the empty space in the corner of the room.

I opened my mouth to speak but his head snapped back to me, gazing straight into my blue orbs. "Gregory...of Yardale?" he asked hesitantly and I nodded.

He squinted his eyes and approached his face to mine. His frown deepened, but a small smirk appeared in his face.

"Your the beetch who sent me those three stupid American boys who almost got me killed." He said in a dull voice, nothing of his moving other than his lips, as if he were talking to himself.

"Yes, but I don't understand why that qualifies me as a bitch." I said, getting a wee bit friendlier with him. He still hadn't let me go, obviously still very unsure with the concept of me being his 'long lost friend' like in those sappy movies.

"Imbecile!" He swore in French, even though I could understand what it meant. "Could you have even sent a more WORTHLESS team!" He rolled his eyes.

"What do you mean? They needed to infiltrate a military base and you were the best I knew of!" I said, in my defence, adding some indirect flattery in the matter, hoping that it would help the idea of letting me go.

"Gregory." He said my name so intensely, staring straight at me; even through me. It sent shivers through my spine, but I guessed that's how other people felt too when they were in situations with the Mole. It was his job to get information out of people, it was probably some kind of technique of his. "First off, neither of them had watches. Second, there was a fat boy who thought his dead friend was haunting him and hence, forgot to turn off the alarm for the dogs. Third, you sent me a pussy Jew, who couldn't stand up to his beetch of a mom, even though LIVES depended on it. And last, why the FUCK was the other kid asking me about the clitoris, hm? He kept asking me where it was! We were in the middle of a WAR and the beetch was asking about his girlfriends CLIT!" He finished, exclaiming the last word a bit too loudly for my liking, but by now the only noise left was the small sound of me laughing.

And before I knew it, he was too.

I had asked him if I could take his blood test and he only agreed on the condition that I speak to him when I'm doing it. I found it an odd request but agreed to it nonetheless.

"So why are you here? You know, your mission I mean." I said as I stuck the needle into his vain.

"Well, I thought I had found my guy, but turns out it was some random gang conflict situation, so that's why I'm here, at present." He said.

"But you probably mean why I'm in Britain. I can't tell you that here. It's not safe." He continued, lowering his voice a little, probably out of reflex. "When you let me go, I'll tell you somewhere safe, but for now..."

I lowered my eyes and bit my lower lip. He was NOT going to like what I was about to say, but I was going to have to eventually.

"Christophe, I really can't let you go." I said, as the pissed off frown reappeared on his face.

"What the fuck do you mean, Gregory! I thought you had understood."

We were back to square one already. He saw me as a stupid doctor again and was insisting on being the difficult patient to play his part. It was too much of a hassle and now that I remembered him, his words would hurt more than the stranger's I thought he was.

"Listen to me." I hissed with authority. "You. Are. Wounded." I said slowly, like an impatient teacher explaining something simple to a stupid student. "If I let you out, you will NOT get far, especially with the type of career you have, you will be moving 24/7 right? There is a HUGE chance it will start bleeding again and you WILL need medical help."

A small ray of hope, that maybe I had gotten through to him, shone in me when his shoulders slumped and the beginnings of a defeated grimace started to appear on his face.

"Gregory..." He whispered. "You have to understand...I-If you knew, you wouldn't say this...if you knew about the job..." He was desperate, that much was clear. Unfortunately, there was not much I could do. "I'll do anything." He pushed.

He's magnificent, I thought to myself. Even as he pleaded with me, he kept his face composed, like a strong man who stood his ground. I envied him because I knew nothing would ever hurt his pride. In fact, his movements and air were so confident, I doubted him even HAVING any pride, therefore nothing being able to harm it. I also noticed the lack of an ego in him, despite that I could recall certain arrogant comments from him, but having all the right to do so of course. My belief was that if you have something worth showing off, then you can flaunt it without worry. Since Christophe's talent, if I remember correctly, was astonishing, I actually would have enjoyed hearing him speak of himself.

"I'm sorry." I said. I hoped I sounded as sincere as I was, because I was starting to really feel bad for him. He was truly in one hell of a predicament, but me releasing him would not help him at all and would get me into trouble. "But you know, we can start by getting this blood to one of the nurses so they can have it tested."

I gathered up the equipment and headed for the door.

"I'm going to get some lunch, I'll be back." I swung the door open and stepped out, but as I took 3 steps out into the hall, I heard my name being called again.

"Yes?" I poked my head around the doorframe.

"Could you...consider?" He said.

Even though the answer was quite clear in my head, I would have considered myself a monster if I hadn't said 'okay' at least to THAT small request.

In the lunchroom, I sat alone again with my destroyed sandwich and unfinished drink. To other people, I was sure I looked like a complete idiot, with that smile lying there on my face; a smile I couldn't control nor did I really mind it. I felt lighter than before, now that everything I ever questioned about my past had surfaced. I knew it was a sign from the Lord, I was sure. This was WAY too convenient to be a coincidence. Into my lonely British life, God had sent me an old friend (he was shot in the leg as well, but let's put that aside, shall we?).

But naturally, with every gift from above, came a series of consequences, obstacles and problems. Sure, it was great that I had been reunited with him, but Christophe was a mercenary and I WOULD have to let him out eventually. Could I bear to let him go again? Maybe to his death...and this time I REALLY wouldn't have said goodbye. Maybe, I could lie to him and keep him at the hospital longer, but the instant the idea came to mind, it was rejected at the same second. That would be like ripping the wings off of a bird, and I, for one, have fought for freedom and didn't intend on becoming a hypocrite anytime soon.

I needed to find a way to have him stay here, because I knew I wouldn't be able to survive without him. It wasn't the fact that it was HIM specifically, it was just that it was someone to keep him company, as pathetic as that was.

He was like a last thread of hope he could hold on to, but was it strong enough to support his weight? I sure did hope so because after this, I'd be stuck here forever. In this boring life I rant and complain about, I would have to live without a single dissatisfaction, because it was all my fault. I had my chance, but never took it. No, it was more like I had no idea how to use it. I was going to let this go, not until I had thought of tried every single plan to keep him.

Though, those two pieces didn't fit at all when I repeated them under my breath. No one in the right mind would try and 'keep Christophe'.

I buried my head into my palms, frustration taking over, proven by the sweat forming on my forehead. I knew I had been avoiding that one option for a while now, maybe because I feared it so much. I secretly denied the fact that it could work perfectly, even though I knew it was probably the most full proof of all the ideas. Plus, didn't I always dream of running away? I wouldn't be leaving much behind either.

The decision I took was decided much too rapidly for a regular person, but I was no regular person. I'd trade my current life for anything, and I knew that Christophe was much more than that.

I found myself jogging in the hallways. I didn't even remember throwing out my tray, or even if I did. I was so determined, so anxious, that I nearly missed room 202.

I barged in a actually managed to startle Christophe. The loud banging noise of the door against the wall had caught the attention of a few nurses in the hallway, so I quickly shut the door (gently) behind me.

"Gregory?" He said. He was still laying in his bed, covered in white sheets up to his stomach. "What's the matter? You're sweating and you seem scared."

"Christophe." I said. "You can go." His face lit up, but I wasn't sure how it was going to end when I added the rest of it.

"But only if I can come with you."


	3. Chapter 3

Cut me open

By the Unlucky-Charm

**My eyes are wide open**

**By the way, I made it through the day.**

**I watch the world outside**

**By the way, I'm leaving out today.**

**-Shinedown**

I wasn't expecting him to accept me arms wide open. I knew the condition I had set was nothing to agree to so easily. We stood there staring at one another, gazes meeting halfway, my eyes pleading, his, I hoped, were considering.

I wondered if he was mocking me in his mind. It hurt to think of such a thing. A person thought of me as some fool and yet, at the moment, he was everything to me.

Through my eyes, he was the brunette from all those dreams and memories; the small young blur with big brown eyes which bared the traces of things no child should ever have to see. But was I, in his dreams and visions, his accomplice? His thin, blonde partner in crime who stood by him no matter how dangerous the situation. Or was I just an image thrown aside in the lost corners of his mind? If so, I couldn't blame him, for I myself had tried to do the same to him on countless occasions.

"It's not like it was."

His heavy French accent came crashing down on my worthless assumptions, pulling me back down into the real world, where I was a doctor about to throw away his life in exchange of another.

"What's not?" I asked.

"When we were kids, it was easier. It's different now. I'm not sure if..."

He was in a dilemma, that was obvious. What was unclear to me was why he was so unsure. Was it my safety he was concerned about or was it the outcome of the mission itself that worried him.

"I can handle it." I said strongly.

"I can't give you any information." He said the second I spoke, causing his words to fuse with mine.

Though I was disappointed, that's not what I had asked for.

"That's fine. I just need to...leave."

That's right. That's all I needed.

"Well you will." He stated half-heartedly. "Tonight."

He stirred around in his bed, fixing the sheets that had knotted around his legs.

"I'm trusting you." He continues once he had noticed that my eyes were still glued to him. "Anything suspicious and you're done for. Understand?"

I nodded like an eager child who was promised treats if he behaved.

Christophe smirked from the side of his mouth. "Now, give me some pain killers and go home to get ready."

I left him some pills and water and reassembled his shovel which I had earlier dismantled.

"I'll go pack." I said, my hand on the doorknob.

As I opened the door and stepped out, I heard him chuckle sarcastically, once again, behind me.

"What?" I asked, my back to him still.

"You've lost it." He responded, the smile audible in his tone.

"Are you calling me crazy?"

"No, I'm saying that you have lost your touch."

"Touch?" I turned around.

"Mon Cher, what exactly are you going to pack?" He asked me in a patronizing manner, his chin up and teasing grin plastered on his face.

As irritating as it was to admit, he was right. There was nothing I could really take with me to where we were going, wherever that was.

"I suppose your right."

"Gregory." He said my name slowly, rolling his R's. "When we are out there. I will ALWAYS be right." His tone took a more serious turn.

I nodded and left.

At the reception, I left a note for DR. Tachejian, letting him know, or more likely lying, that I wasn't feeling well and had to leave.

I wasn't ashamed to say it and I would yell it to the world if I had to...

My mother buys my clothes.

Hence, my wardrobe contained no army boots, no cargo pants, no inexpensive tees or tank tops.

"Shit" I whispered. I was damn well screwed. I couldn't exactly go off killing people in Hugo Boss.

I took in a deep breath and went on an expedition in my walk-in closet. The further I went in, the older the clothes were. Eventually, like I had predicted, I came across my old light blue jeans that I adored, ripped at the knees and thighs. I held it up and stretched out the fabric a little.

"It should fit."

Still in my closet, I slipped them on and ran around a little, moving into different stances. They were comfortable, that was a given. Now, I needed a top, which was hard since everything I owned were either button-downs and Polo's from Ralph Lauren. I went into the back again, where my older shirts were, hoping that at least ONE T-shirt would come up. I ended up settling on an ancient dull orange Armani button-down. I remembered loving it during my younger years. It was a little tight, so I left the four top buttons undone, showing off some of my chest.

I didn't even need to check in the mirror to know that I looked like a male model and Christophe would probably reprimand me for it.

So this was it, the clothes I would have to wear until God knows when. I restyled my blonde hair, combing it back with a few short strands astray, floating over my forehead. As for footwear, I laced up my brown boots I would use to go hiking with. And finally, because I found it appropriate, I took my silver cross and put it around my neck.

I am an atheist. But, the well known expression states that there are no atheists in the trenches and where I was going could be compared, I supposed.

The last thing I did was go downstairs and eat as much as I could. I thought that maybe I could take advantage of that one luxury one last time before I left it behind along with everything else.

"Tonight, my life will change forever." I said out loud.

That line has been heard in many movies and many books but when you're part of the audience, you don't really think about it. You let it pass and enjoy the rest of the film or keep on reading. But when you're playing part in the scene, such as I am now, it weighs heavier on the heart.

I contemplated not leaving a note for my mother and father but then I thought I should. God forbid, the idiots believe that I was kidnapped and start pressing charges against innocent people, or worse, they find me with Christophe and press charges against him. The note reflected on my running away willingly and yet showed my unwillingness to write it.

"**Goodbye, I'm leaving.**

**-Gregory"**

Am I being a bad son? Am I mistreating my parents? Not in my book. They're lucky I actually bothered adding a 'good' to the 'bye'.

I finished off my apple and made my escape from the front door. It was warm outside but very breezy, not that I minded. I checked my watch and saw that I was on time, so I walked to the bus stop instead of sprinting like I did in the mornings.

Of course, in the back of my mind, I knew where I was going and what I would be dealing with for God knows how long, but at the moment, I shut my eyes, threw back my head slightly and let the wind caress my face. I let other thoughts invade my mind and take priority over that one rather bothersome one. I tried thinking of my parents' reaction, the doctor's reaction, what measures would be taken...but it all just led to one single thing: Christophe.

I sat at the bus stop on one of the dirty benches I usually would avoid, but I guess tonight, it was the least of my worries. I wondered about what my new partner would have me do. Would we actually kill people? Or just break the law continuously and get away with it? Where was he going to take me first? Those questions made me apprehensive and I thought that maybe it would have been better to leave a longer and more detailed letter than a four word note. And maybe I should have packed up some food and extra clothes...

As my mind had a verbal war within itself, the bus arrived and I stepped in, ignoring everything that was being shouted inside the walls of my skull. The bus began to move and I lay my head on the cold window.

Outside, the world sped by and slowed down as the bus did. The driver stopped at every red light and every stop sign, even though there were barely any cars around. My mind was in one of those states where is thought of absolutely nothing. My brain was empty, like when I'm in my meditative zone. I didn't think and I didn't ask questions. I was readying myself emotionally for what I was throwing myself into. Blanking out my mind purposefully to make room for my new life, the life I always wanted.

Outside, the sun was setting and by the time I had gotten to the hospital, it was completely dark. I rarely went to my workplace at night but whenever I did, I always thought it looked more like an asylum that a hospital; this time was not exception.

I stepped off the bus and stood in front of the building, calculating my moves to get Christophe out of there. The perfect idea would be to get to my floor, go to his room, get him ready and sneak him out while the night shift worker was getting coffee or something. I could also simply lie to the worker and somehow get him out of there...Or, what I could do is-

"Bonsoir."

"Agh!" I yelped and practically fell over in surprise. I felt my heart rise to my throat and fall back down to my chest. It was beating hard, I could hear it in my ears. My hands clamped over my mouth, I stared at the Frenchman facing me in complete nonchalance, as if he had NOT just escaped from the hospital and scared me half to death. In the dark, I could barely see him, even though there was not much to see. The only differences I could make out were the lit cigarette in his mouth (that he just threw away for that matter) and the strap he had around his torso that held his shovel behind his back.

Before I could speak, he took one large stride towards me and ended up way too close. Every time he took a breath, I'd feel his chest brush up against mine. He had a smirk on his face, framing the new unlit cigarette he had dangling from his mouth. He glided his eyes over me, inspecting every single detail with his gaze only. Every now and then, he'd let a finger or two linger over the fabric of my clothing.

"What are you wearing?" He stated more than questioned.

"I know, I know, don't laugh. It's all I had and-"

"Non. Mon Cher, tell me; what are you wearing?" He repeated, as if he had told a joke and I wasn't getting it. I wondered if that were truly the case here, since that irritating smirk had not left his lips.

I rose an eyebrow, not really understanding what he meant and yet feeling a bit uneasy in fear of embarrassing myself. So, slowly and hesitantly, I answered.

"Um, jeans... and orange shirt...?" A wider smile appeared on his face and as he shook his head, an almost inaudible chuckle escaped from him.

"What?" I demanded.

He patted my shoulder and examined me up and down one last time.

"It's okay, you don't remember..." He whispered so slow, I could have sworn he was addressing himself.

His taunting grin disappeared and he now wore an old, worn out smile. He looked like an emotional mother at a son's graduation, but why was HE looking at ME like that?

"What don't I remember?" I asked.

"Never mind." He breathed an unsatisfactory response and pressed his palm against the breast of my short, smoothing out with his spread fingers, the wrinkles that weren't even there.

"We need to leave." He suddenly stated. "We have to go to my place and figure out some sheet."

He began to walk away and I followed. Three steps later he stopped dead in his tracks with me a meter away.

"Oh right..." He muttered and went down on one knee, reaching out for his left boot.

Even though we were under a streetlamp, I couldn't really make out the dark rectangular object he pulled out.

"Eet it not much but," He closed the distance between us and handed me the wooden object. "I don't know why I have kept eet, I suppose for backup, but I believe you should have it back..."

I took it and ran my hands over a few times before coming across a button which released, in a swift movement, the blade hidden inside. The knife seemed very old because of all the debris on it but luckily, no rust. On the wooden handle, my name was carved with the R's written backwards. I stuck my nail in the crevasses and followed the movements of each letter.

"I deed that, in case you were wondering." He said. "When I was a kid, I still had some form of emotion left. I thought it would be a nice memory of you."

For such a touching and strong statement, he used a cold tone. Maybe it was because of all the emotion he 'lost' during the years, whatever he meant by that.

"Oh come now, you don't need to put up that tough guy act. Everyone has feelings, otherwise it's inhumane." I said, my voice only slightly patronising. I did not lift my head up to look at him and kept my eyes glued on the dagger. When I looked at it from an angle, it just seemed like any other knife. However, when it was as if I was about to use it, the movements felt familiar and triggered some new memories. So, this must have been the 'sword' mother was speaking of. Stupid woman...How was this a sword! I could eat steak with this thing.

"Then, in that case, mon ami, I am no human." The Frenchman said.

"Don't say that, of course you're human. What the hell else would you be?"

He continued walking straight into the street, his hands in his pockets. "That's what I'd like to know."

I refuse to show it, but I pitied him and couldn't help but feel that it was partially my fault that he was left alone. Though we were kids and I couldn't exactly stay while my family went back to England, now that I could make my own decisions. Maybe, in the end, he needed me as much as I needed him. He was my way out, my escape, my saviour. He might not know it yet and it might not even be the case, but at the moment, he was like a dead man, like the perfect soldier. No emotions meant no love or joy, but it also meant no fear, no pity, giving him an advantage in fights and making him all the better at his job.

We were partners in the past and he claims he still had his emotions during that time? Was I the reason? If so, why couldn't I be now? It couldn't be too late, at least I hoped not. Maybe this way, his chuckles would be less dry and his smiles less tired. Getting him to regain his humanity was my priority. They say that the first step is admitting it, so I could say that he had made it that far, at least.

Christophe had begun to jog, so I followed him not far behind. Even from behind, you could tell he was a good looking man. If not for his inconvenient job, he could have snagged himself a good looking woman, mind you. Broad shoulders, toned abdomen, strong arms and legs, now what woman wouldn't want that?

"Stop staring." He growled and made my heart skip a beat or two.

"How the hell can you tell?" I asked, my voice coming out as a squeak, filled with exasperation and embarrassment.

"So you WERE staring."

Damn him and his magic mercenary powers.

I didn't answer and instead became quietly thankful that he had his back to me and could not see me blush.

His apartment was situated in the bad sides of town, the regions everyone avoided. You could call it the ghettos of London; dark, filthy, and corrupted, just like any other ghetto really. As we went up the uneven stairs, I noticed how my companion seemed to fit perfectly in this environment, unlike me. Blonde, neat hair, designer clad rich boy did not go well with his apartment room's gray painted walls filled with holes, gross carpet, single mattress, and tiny TV; those were the first few things I saw when he first entered the place.

"Don't bother making yourself at home." Christophe said.

"Oh, don't you worry..." I mumbled sarcastically, wandering in further into the room. As I turned the corner, I found myself in the kitchen, separated from what was supposed to be the living room, by a wall. The kitchen was as special as the rest of the apartment; it had discoloured walls, a small fridge and an old radio on the dirty counter, covered in cracked, broken tiles.

"I don't have any food if that eez what you are looking for." His voice came from behind.

"I'm not hungry." We were cold with each other. If anyone else were here, they'd think we were in a feud.

He nodded and turned back to the living room, where he sat on his mattress and turned on the tiny television. The image was fuzzy and judging by the antennas on it, it probably had only a couple of channels available. Christophe turned on the news, which made perfect sense, since he might need the information for his mission. He watched intently, his left leg was fidgety and bounced up and down, making his whole body rock gently on the mattress. The news anchor spoke of some crisis in a third world country, which was probably of no interest to him. I took a single step out of the 'kitchen' and saw his empty gaze and unreadable eyes all directed to the screen.

"Why did you come?" He didn't look at me.

"I needed to run away." The words were said, without my consent. It was a sentence I had repeated to myself so many times that it had become as natural as 'hello'.

"From what?" Voice dry, eyes unmoved.

"Everything. It's not what I wanted."

A dead noise came from him, I assumed he was laughing.

"The fabulous life of a rich doctor; how terrible." He was being sarcastic and I didn't appreciate it one bit. "Why would you give that up to stick with a beetch like me, doing a sheety job that only a lunatic would enjoy doing." He took out a cigarette and stuck it between his lips. "I respect you Gregory, but you are a fool. Like a child, you make decisions without thinking of the consequences." A car commercial came up, but he kept watching.

'Look at me when you say things like that', I thought.

"You'll regret it, you'll see."

'Turn around.'

"But it'll be too late. I can't let you go after all this."

'Look at me.'

"Just a warning to you."

'Look at me.'

"Gregory?"

I snapped out of my phased state and my brain automatically ceased its bickering.

"It's none of your business." I spat, almost involuntarily.

"Oh? And how is that?" He spun around on the mattress, his legs crossed and smoking. He was humouring me, I could tell in his tone and his taunting expression.

"You can't give me any information about the mission and I can't tell you anything about me and my intentions." I said.

"Do you not think you're being a little childish? I'm sure the information I have is fairly more important than your life story."

"I didn't say it is. Even if you DID tell me of the information, I would still keep everything to myself."

Shaking his head, he got up, threw his cigarette onto the floor and stood, once again, way too close to me.

"I don't give a sheet about your perfect blonde rich boy life." He spat. "All I want, is to get this job done, hands clean. For that to happen, I WILL have to let you in on some things and a couple of names."

"Such as...Mysterion?" I asked, and grinned deviously, knowing how much it bothered him that I knew about the government papers and the letter.

He looked away and ground his teeth, all to my contempt. He shut his eyes tightly and opened them, obviously frustrated about something.

"Oui, like Mysterion." He grunted. "Mysterion is my inside guy." He explained, pulling out a new cigarette. "He lives pretty far away in a specific location that I cannot reveal yet. He knows people and...the man just can't die, so that comes in handy."

"He's that good?"

"Non, he is really a major pervert. He seduces, fucks, and get the information." He took a drag. "As long as he gets the job done, I cannot complain." He spoke rapidly, waving his hand dismissively.

"All right, anyone else?"

"Triple J. He does some computer sheet, but I'm not too sure how."

I squinted my eyes, trying to look serious and professional. "I suppose he's the one who provided you with those government papers, isn't he?" I asked tentatively.

"Yes, good. There are a few more people doing different jobs. Beefcake, for example; his job is similar to mine, only more manipulative."

I raised am eyebrow at the disgust in his tone, when he spoke of this 'Beefcake' person. "Shouldn't you be manipulative? No offense, but isn't it necessary for a person in your...field of work?" I was hesitant. Christophe was, to me, like a time bomb; one wrong word and he would explode. Luckily, 'no offense' were the right words and the Frenchman chuckled.

"Mon Cher, let me assure you that I can be the most manipulative ass hole you will ever set your gorgeous blue eyes on." He flattered himself. "Unfortunately, eet eez not my specialty. Beefcake can use people like puppets; make them do what he wants and say what he wants. It's sneaky and keeps you on the safer side of this job." He dropped his second cigarette to the floor, only half smoked, and stepped over it to put out the sparks. We were, once again, face to face. His eyes stabbing straight through mine, making me feel vulnerable and exposed. Expose to what? I wasn't sure.

"And tell me Gregory," He breathed straight to my face, "do I look like a **safe** person to you?"

I had never noticed it before, but Christophe was even better looking up close. This wasn't the same for everyone. It had happened to me, just like to every other man, to see a girl from a far and then only to discover that she's not as magnificent up close. Christophe was just gorgeous. The only flaw on his face could be the tiny scar right over his cheekbone. And this seriously was the wrong time to be noticing all of this.

"N-no..." I stuttered. "You do not."

"Exactly." He spat and walked away to sit back on the mattress.

My head still in the clouds after analysing Christophe's face for the millionth time, my voice was still coming out in a soft babble. "U-um, so what IS your, um, specialty?"

His hands behind his head, he laid down on the 'bed' and shut his eyes as the corners of his mouth twitched into a small smile.

"Torture." He purred, making the word sound much sexier than it should be.

"Th-That's disturbing, really." I said.

"That may be, but it has to be done. I rarely get physical though. The idiots usually spew out everything I need when I get into their minds and screw them up a little."

"Rape of the mind." I stated, remembering having read such a thing in one of my medical books.

"Precisely." He said, opening his eyes and sitting back up. "Are you tired?" He asked.

"Yes, I suppose, but I can stay up if necessary."

"No need." He patted the part of the mattress next to him. "We must share, so don't try anything gay."

"Ha Ha." I laughed sarcastically and sat myself down next to him. "For the record, I wouldn't mind standing guard for the night."

"Good, but that's fine. I wake up at the slightest noise. In fact, a sleeping me, is much more useful than an awake you."

I sighed and laid down in the same fashion he was earlier. He looked back at me from over his shoulder and once again, I was petrified by his gaze.

"You know, you can get very cocky." I said.

"And you are an arrogant Brit." He stated casually. "But I have the decency to no to say it out loud."

I laughed, a real laugh this time. I only hope he HAD, in fact, made a joke. He didn't smile, but his expression did not show any threat, with the left side of his mouth twitching upwards. He blinked at me a few times, not a word being said. His tongue lapped out and he licked his lips, before laying down beside me in the same position.

"Well, good night." He said. "Sleep with your back turned to me, I don't want to wake up in your arms like in those sheet movies."

For such a tough guy, he had some pretty odd whims. So technically, he was letting me sleep in the same bed as him, but I wasn't aloud to...snuggle?

"Right...those movies..."

The mattress was fairly small, leaving a space of only 10 inches between our backs. The apartment was in complete silence. There was no buzz of a heating system, nor the constant hum of a refrigerator since the existence of either was lacking and Christophe made no noise in his sleep, having probably trained himself to do so. His shovel was lain right next to him at the foot of the mattress and his cigarettes as well. I wanted to shift my position so badly, or at least remove my dagger from my pocket, who's handle was digging into my thigh, but I was afraid of waking him up. His usual mood was on its own very cranky, so I imagined that he wasn't much of a morning person.

Eventually,I drifted off into a light sleep, which lasted a few hours. Anything could have awoken me; I blamed it on this new environment. Even the slightest touch would have roused me from my sleep, so you can only imagine what it was like when I felt someone's short nails digging into my skin in the small hours of the morning.

"Sheet!" I heard.

I turned over, and my shoulder blades met with somebody's chest halfway. Instantly, I sat up at the contact, only to realise that Christophe was holding on very tightly to my hand.

So there we were, with me sitting on my knees, the brunette's hand in mine and his other gripping his leg, from which blood was slowly spreading into the fabric of his pants.

"Your wound!" I exclaimed in panic.

"Beetch! You didn't sew it up properly!" He said through clenched teeth. His face was not too distorted; he looked like he had stumped his toe on a chair leg, but the pain he truly felt was surely much greater than that.

"No, you idiot. It's because of that running you did yesterday." I yelled. "Fuck. Where's your first aid kit?" I asked urgently, my arms waving around all over the place.

He pointed to the kitchen. "The cupboard."

Tearing my hand from his strong grasp, I ran into the kitchen, slammed open the single cabinet, containing only a couple of plates and surely enough, a very large first aid kit. I ran back to the mattress and crouched down in front of him.

"Christophe, do you feel faint?" I asked him, pressing my palm against his cheek; he was still warm enough, meaning he hadn't lost too much yet.

"A little bit, yes." He said and sucked in some air, holding it in. "You're the doctor. Just cut me open and fix it already." He growled, his eyes fluttering.

I laid him down and bandaged his leg as tightly as possible. The bleeding stopped after a moment.

"It should heal on its own now. No need for me to 'cut you open.'" I said, apparently to myself since Christophe had either fainted or fallen asleep.

I made my way toward his head to check his temperature again. He was covered in sweat and his wet hair stuck to his forehead. He looked similar to how he was on that first night at the hospital, when the Dr. Tachejian was operating on him.

With the back of my hand, I wiped off all the sweat and then ran my fingers through his hair, pushing it back; away from his face. He didn't stir or wake up, so I assumed he had fainted. I continued stroking his hair,, conscious of my actions, but not wanting to stop. He wrinkled his nose in his sleep, probably due to my cologne. I sighed as I removed the last string of thick brown hair and got up to leave.

"Gregory, don't fucking leave." He whispered, half of it coming out in deep breaths.

"Not again..." I wasn't sure if he was talking in his sleep or if he was just semi-conscious, but either way those words were not his. At least not him in the present. Those words were those of a young boy, alone and scared, his best friend gone, miles away. They were a cry for help, that his pride ended up muffling and never owning up to, leaving him lost in this world, with nowhere to go to.

I guess, in a way, I could hear him calling, when no one else could. Or maybe I was the only one who ran after him, when nobody else would bother.

A few hours later, he woke up again. It was around 8 o'clock and I hadn't left his side even once during those long hours. He was taken aback when he woke, not that I blame him, I WAS kind of sitting next to him and watching him sleep.

"What the FUCK are you doing gay boy?" He spat.

So he WAS talking in his sleep...interesting, he didn't seem to remember asking me to stay.

"I couldn't sleep after..." I cut my sentence short and slid my eyes down to his bandage.

"Right well... that's no reason for you to be watching me sleep, pervert." He said and sat up.

I had noticed this before, but it has been becoming more and more frequent as my time with him continues; does he really think I'm some kind of gay pervert? Most of his insults, putting aside the one about my nationality, consist of him referring to me as a homosexual. He seemed to be a little sensitive when it came to things like that. Just like when a woman has been raped, it takes her some time to get over the trauma and let a man touch her again. However, I strongly doubted that was the case with Christophe. I'd like to really see the idiot who would try to rape, or even touch, the Frenchman without his permission, and it's not like you can use force on a man with a build like his.

"Could you bring me my shovel?" He asked.

I wrinkled my nose (he had bad morning breath) and got up.

"Wait, you know what?" he stopped me. "Just bring me the papers inside."

I obeyed, only because he was injured and I felt bad.

"Can I look at them?" I asked as I unscrewed the handle.

"Non. I want to show them to you."

I sat next to him with the papers, shaking the bed a little. The movement must have made his leg move since he suddenly slapped his hand on my shoulder to keep his stability and hissed in pain.

"Sorry."

"I am fine." He answered stubbornly, despite his strong grip still present on my shoulder.

"Right, so, what is it you want to show me?"

"The beetch we are after; what he looks like, who he is, all that sheet." He explained, unrolling a few pieces of paper and throwing aside the letter from Mysterion.

"I thought you didn't trust me." I said, trying not to sound like I was mocking him.

"True. But, I was thinking yesterday night that it would be smarter if I showed you who we were after. That way, if those pretty blue eyes yours happened to see him, I want you to that he's the one." He told me, staring straight into 'those pretty blue eyes of mine'.

I cleared my throat with a nervous cough. "Yes, that would be smarter." I said.

"His initials are T.B., I am not too certain of his full name. My people, the one's who I told you about earlier, have reason to believe that he's some Trent Boyette, having been let out of prison 2 years ago. Triple J hacked into a few systems, got some information on his location." He explained.

"Okay, so why are we chasing around an ex-convict?"

"Mysterion and Beefcake did some asking around about recent murders around their area, one of them causing the loss of a good friend of theirs. He fit the description the witnesses gave, though I have no idea how they even know this T.B. person.

"I am not interested in their life stories or personal conflicts. They asked me to get rid of this guy and so I will."

"Right. So what's our first move?" I asked, sounding a tad too eager.

"First we need to meet someone; the messenger. Be careful with him, he's a pussy and I think it was his girlfriend who was the victim. His name is 'Whale Whore', don't ask." He rolled his eyes. "He is bringing some new sheet on T.B.'s connections. We need to know if this guy is working alone or not. It will determine how dangerous this job is."

He handed me the papers again and kept one with him. He held it up to me and showed me the photo.

It was one of a tired looking young man, who seemed to be pretty damn angry at the world. He wore a red shirt, light blue jeans resembling mine, had dirty blonde hair and overall looked like a hick.

"This is him?" I asked, sounding disappointed on purpose. "This is a teenager who does drugs to get back at his parents, I doubt he's a murderer."

Christophe snorted. "Do not judge a book my it's cover, sir. It will bring you trouble. This man is our age, based on what I have read and his parents are dead."

I nodded to him, not knowing what else to say, and put all of the papers back safely into his shovel. I began walking to the door, my hand over my pocket, cupping my dagger when I heard Christophe clear his throat. I spun around, only to see him still sitting on the mattress, with his arms thrown in front of him, resembling a child that wanted to be carried. I suppressed some laughter and made my way back to him. For such a scary guy, he looked cute making the gesture...ahem, yeah, right.

"You want me to carry you there?" I joked.

"Again with the gayness, what eez wrong with you?" He asked, teasing back.

There he went again with the homosexual jokes, but I guess I had to see that one coming.

"I might be a little slow, but I think I can keep up with YOU."

I wasn't insulted, but for some reason we both blushed and walked out of the apartment, with me dragging behind him, even with his wounded leg.

"Don't stare." He grunted.

"For once, I'm actually not." I mocked, flashing my cocky smile.

He looked at me from over his shoulder, eyes deadly, but lips curled up in an amused smirk. ,

As we went down the stairs, he spoke up once more.

"You know Gregory, women can't resist me, but I never thought I'd have the same effect on a man."

I laughed and followed him, but in my mind, I couldn't help but think how right he was.


	4. Chapter 4

Cut me open

Show me what it's like

To be the last one standing.

And teach me wrong from right

And I'll show you what I can be.

-Nickelback 

By the Unlucky-Charm

The underground garage of the abandoned building was old, flooded, and smelled of decay. It was a 20 minute walk from our apartment to there. At first, Christophe insisted on jogging our way there but I didn't allow it. He tried it a few times though. We would be walking and he would randomly strike up an interesting conversation and then bombard me with a series of questions. Then, when I was in the middle of my explanation, he broke into a run. For a man in his condition, he went pretty fast, but he was no match for me; my legs were fine, which gave me the advantage of catching up to him and stopping him for hurting himself even more.

"Hey. Gay boy." He whispered when we went through a tunnel leading to the meeting place. "On the way back, could we at least run. We can't waste any time."

"Maybe. If you stop calling me gay boy."

Rolling his eyes, he chuckled sarcastically. "I will think about it. For now, we need to find this guy. This will give me the opportunity to teach you a new technique."

"Which is...?" I asked. It was my turn to roll my eyes. This guy was so cocky. He's the type who will brag about any knowledge he has that no one else does.

"My universal signal. It's been the same for the longest time and everyone I've ever worked with knows it. We use it for everything: finding each other, calling for help, warning and-"

I silenced him by putting my finger in the middle of his lips. He frowned, looking slightly taken aback my daring gesture. To be honest, so was I and I wanted nothing more but to pull away. I have no idea what possessed to make contact with him, let alone his MOUTH.

"Fag, what the fuck?" He spoke, his chapped lips moving against my index finger.

"Chris-"

"Don't touch my mouth!"

"Listen-"

"Don't cut me off."

Shaking my head and with a loud sigh I took a step back and smirked at his reddened face. I crossed my arms in an X form on my chest.

"Uuuwa! Uuuwa! Uuuwa!" I called into the empty parking lot.

From the corner of my eyes I saw his mouth fall open. I grinned to my ears and laughed at how adorable he looked...um, well COMPARED to how terrifying he was before. I think I just made his day. I put my hands behind my back and twirled on one leg towards him.

"Dying giraffe?" I said, as if I was offering one to him.

His large shoulders shook as he chuckled and shook his head.

"At least there is one thing you remember, mon ami." He patted my shoulder and only seconds later, from some shadowy corner, emerged a very average looking guy. He had jet black hair, normal body, normal black clothes and black circles under his bloodshot eyes.

"Whale whore." Christophe whispered. "How are you?"

"I-I've been better man."

"I know, I know...I heard."

It wasn't really all that bright in the room, but I could have sworn the man's eyes began to water the second Christophe began to speak about what had happened.

"She was your girlfriend, it must have been hard." He went on and all I wanted to do was shut him up because I was sure that this 'Whale Whore' person had already heard all this crap.

"G-girlfriend? No dude, she was a close friend..." Through sobs he let out a very sad chuckle. "I'm not into stuff like that."

"You mean dating a co-worker?" I stepped into the conversation. Whale whore looked at me for a second then smiled.

"Nah dude, girls. Can't stand 'em, I'll stick to me bitchy Jew thank you very much."

At this moment, all I wanted to do was look at Christophe's reaction. The guy spends his time bugging me about being gay, which for the record I am not, and I'm just wondering if Christophe was aware of Whale Whore's sexuality.

"Now, if you two are done socializing, I want to get down to work. So, Whale Whore, Gregory, Gregory, Whale Whore."

"Nice to meet you Greg-... No way. The British kid! Dude! I remember you! You stole Wendy away from me...she's the one we...lost recently."

Oh yes...I remember now, the black haired girl with the beret and the needy boyfriend. Wendy, that was her name and his was Stan. He had a Jewish friend. So was it him he was dating? I wanted to ask but Christophe will get really angry, for sure.

"Oh wow, Mole, it's him! Hehe." Stan, or Whale Whore, however you want to call him, began nudging the Frenchman in the ribs. His tears had dried and he was smiling, but that didn't seem to please Christophe very much.

"Stop it, beetch." He pushed him away, but by now Stan had begun wriggling his eyebrows at him. In all honestly, I had no idea what was going on, but the one thing, the one single thing that might have made my life complete was when Christophe, my cranky Frenchman, blushed.

I wasn't sure how to react at how Whale Whore was acting. Any person could see their closeness. Stan kept nudging Christophe playfully, something I would never risk my life doing. I didn't think Christophe was the type to enjoy being poked at like the Pillsbury man. Even so, he put an arm around the Frenchman and continued teasing.

"It's Gregory dude! You excited?" He said, jerking his chin in my direction.

"Yes, ecstatic." He said sarcastically.

"Don't be like that~" He patted his back. "You always put up this tough guy act. Blondie has no idea does he?" That was me, logically since I was the fair haired person in the 'room'.

"What don't I know?" I finally spoke up. I did not appreciate how they had begun talking about me as if I wasn't there.

"You know everything. What this idiot is saying is wrong. So he knows nothing. Hence, there is nothing you do not know." He was speaking way too fast, with way to much feeling and emotion, not to mention the hand motions. In psychology, that meant the person was nervous and nervous people must have a reason to be that way right? Well, it's usually because they're hiding something. That is the core of the problem in most cases. I was beginning to think that Christophe was no exception.

"Wow, worst liar ever!" Stan seemed to be less depressed now and more bent on irritating you know who. I had never seen such a lively smile paired with such dead tired eyes. It made him look much older than he was, the only thing missing would be a couple of white hairs here and there.

"Why would I lie?" Christophe hissed.

"You seriously want me to make the list? First off, it would totally embarrass you."

"Yes, because it's not like you aren't doing that now." Again with the sarcasm on Christophe's part. "Can we begin our work now?"

"Yeah, yeah. I just can't wait to tell Beefcake, he'll be making a call to Blondie here, for sure."

"I beg to differ." Christophe said, throwing a quick angry glance my way, as if this was all my fault. "So what is going on?"

"Man's on the run."Stan's face took a serious turn and it seemed all the grief had come back to him. "It's his strategy. He kills, runs, hides and then when the cost it clear, he hits again. We believe he has a list. He's targeting the people around us until he get to the core."

"What is the core?"

"Me, Triple, Beef and Myst." He used nicknames for the codenames; it took me a second to grasp that.

"We are not involved right?" Christophe asked, pressing his palm against his chest.

My heart rose to my throat at the use of 'we'. He was considering me part of all this situation, making me a part of it which was what I was kind of aiming for. Stan seemed to have noticed too because he suddenly grinned a boyish smile, dimples and everything.

"Yes Mole, you two will be fine." He lost his grin. "I even doubt he knows of your existence."

"Oui, just how I like it."

"Yeah, yeah, but this guy is freaking insane! We just need to get rid of him before anyone back home starts getting suspicious."

"Why would they get suspicious?" I asked.

"Just think. It's a small town. If people keep getting randomly shot, it's going to raise question."

"Is he here in London?" I spoke again.

"We're not sure, but we think so. This is where he ran off to the second he was let out of Juvy. But at this point, he can be anywhere in Europe."

"But you did get more information right?" Christophe asked.

"Yes, he is meeting with someone. Some man named Scott. The guy is flying all the way to Manchester to meet with him. Triple H was monitoring every piece of mail, e-mail and even fax I think coming from the outside to our town. This Scott person received a bunch recently and Beefcake just suddenly INSISTED on following him. We just didn't ask anything, because you know, it's Beefcake we're talking about, but other than that, we really need you guys to get this done."

"Beefcake knows this man?" I asked.

"Yeah apparently. Plus, judging by his reaction when the name Scott cam up, this guy isn't all nice and sweet."

Whale Whore suddenly reached into his trench coat and pulled out a document, handing it to Christophe before I got a chance to even look at it properly.

"Pictures." He said. "They're a couple a years old but they should still be of use."

We both nodded, as my French partner put the file under his arm without even looking at it.

"So, is the plan still on? Does all of this apply to Scott as well?"

"No." He said. "T.B., you get rid of. As for Scott, you bring him back to us. Understood?"

That last request was a bit too demand-like for my liking and I don't think the Mole seemed to appreciate it either.

"Are you fucking retarded? How am I supposed to get this Scott faggot all the way to the hole you people call a town? He hissed rather loudly.

"We need to question him." The raven haired one argued.

Christophe's frown deepened. And just like those hunks from those action films, he took a step forward, standing inches taller than Stan and stared at him, displeased.

"Well, why don't we keep him captive here and you beetches get your asses to London INSTEAD."

"I-um, well, I-I'll ask."

I chuckled quietly at the whole situation. As much as I disapproved of his ways, I would have to agree with him on this topic. Those Americans were putting too much on his shoulders and other than research, weren't doing much themselves.

"I am tired of risking my life for you pathetic idiots."

Stand held up his hands in front of him, creating a distance between him and the Mole.

"Okay, okay, we'll do that then."

"Good, because if anyone other than Mysterion dies, it will be all YOUR faults. You just better hope for your own sakes that it won't be Gregory or me."

My head snapped up at those words and my eyebrows shot up, all voluntarily done. His words astonished me and I had no reason to deny or hide it. He had been this way the second we met with Whale Whore; he kept including me into the whole business, as if I have been his partner for years, as if we were a package, me and him. The reason of his behaviour remained a mystery to me, but for now, the only plausible reason that came to mind was his strong will to leave a good impression on Stan, therefore acted as if we were great partners to get that across.

"Don't you worry," He said, taking a step sideways, away from the Frenchman. "You and your precious Brit are safe. I doubt any of those bastards possess the fighting skills and weapons you two do."

I just hoped he was right and also... Why the FUCK was he NOT reacting to all of this? 'Your precious Brit', those were his exact words, but Christophe just let it pass! And honestly, I really don't see any other way of looking at it, it's in bloody black and white! After all the times he has discriminated against homosexuals, not to mention the several times he was convinced I was one, how could he just let that comment slip by him?

"Now that this is done, would you gentlemen care to join me for some coffee?" Stan proposed.

"Very well." Christophe answered for the both of us, I assumed.

"Great. Now you can tell me what the hell happened to your leg." He smiled arrogantly, as if noticing the obvious detail was so sneaky and clever of him.

"You noticed that did you." My partner sighed.

And so, during the walk to the coffee place, Christophe began a long narrative of how he had gotten shot and then he didn't really remember much after that. However, he did seem to recall the events of the hospital room involving me and Dr. Tachejian, whom oddly enough, he didn't mention.

"Yeah, Gregory just cut me open and pulled out the bullet." He lied for some reason. "He sewed it up too."

"Oooh, Dr. Yardale huh. I like." Stan said.

What I couldn't comprehend was why he had given me the credit, even though it was in a very crude manner because surely no one ever 'cut him open', but it wasn't even I who performed the surgery. Nonetheless, I smiled.

We got to the coffeehouse a while later and sat near a window. My two companions were still discussing of Christophe's leg and began going into the medical terminology without even bothering to consult me, as if they knew what the hell they were talking about. It amused me greatly to watch them throw around big words that had nothing to do with his injury. Just like children, I thought to myself.

Silence reigned when our orders arrived. All of us seemed to be indulging in whatever it was we were eating or drinking. It didn't matter to me; I was famished. I wolfed down my food before I could even taste it and then relaxed myself with the warm comfort of coffee.

"This is good." Christophe stated.

"Mmhmm." Stan responded, then added something about this 'Tweek' person, but I didn't quite catch what he said.

After another moment of quiet, Christophe spoke up again.

"So, Whale, you and Triple J, huh?"

He shrugged. "Eh, it's not official or anything. For such a smart dude, he's so ridiculously oblivious, of everything other than work."

"How come?" I asked.

"You can't really expect the kid to figure out that his best friend is gay for him, just like that." Christophe said and snapped his fingers.

"How very correct you are, Mole." He said through clenched teeth, looking straight at Christophe who was doing his best to look away. But then, his face went back to normal and turned to me. "Well you see, I constantly touch him and shit, none sexually of course, but I still get way too close. He's so concentrated all the time." His face softened even more.

"Does he really show no interest?" The Mole asked.

"Well, before I left to come here, he randomly slung his arms around my neck and asked me to be careful."

"That must mean something."

"I don't know, whatever." With a wave of his hand, the subject was pushed aside. "So how's it going with you two?" He asked, waggling his eyebrows.

This time, Christophe took a sip from his mug and sent Stan a death look from over the large white cup. Oh, so NOW he was reacting! And not even in a proper manner.

"We are fine." He said dryly.

At that, Stan snorted. "Right."

So by now, I knew very well that they were both in on something I wasn't. I wouldn't be stuffing my nose into this so much if I wasn't almost sure that it was concerning me. Obviously, I wasn't sure what it was specifically about, but it was bother Christophe immensely, much to Whale Whore's amusement. Thing is...I did have a few ideas of what they were speaking of, but one was more impossible than the other, so I just let them go.

"Hey Doctor." I supposed he was speaking to me. "Did he give you that knife?" He asked, jerking his head toward the Mole as he did.

I nodded. "Yes he did."

"Cute right?" He winked at me.

I wasn't quite certain what to answer because personally I did think it was cute and I really didn't feel like going through Christophe's reaction if I did agree with Stan and answer honestly. The fact that he had done it during his childhood was the only thing that made it cute though. If the present Christophe had done something like that, it would have been downright disturbing. Yes, you might be thinking 'Gregory, any man of that age would seem creepy doing something like that'. Now, that is not true. For many people it might be, but if Stan ever did something like that for Triple J (who's real name I really cant remember), it would look adorable, at least through my eyes and surely those of many, many young women.

Afterwards, once we were finished with our coffee, all three of us left the place. We walked together in silence until a certain point where Stan parted from us.

"I hope to see you guys soon." He said and leaned in. "If Kyle finally takes a hint, maybe the four of us could go out somewhere sometime."

Those were the last words he spoke before leaving. Of course, he was gone, so he didn't have to endure the double meaning of that proposition of his like I had to endure weighing down on me for the rest of the day.

On the way back to the apartment, Christophe asked me to wait outside as he stepped into what I assumed was a cyber-cafe because of all the computers seen through the window. Luckily he was only in there for a few minutes. I watched him through the glass. He looked a little awkward with the machine which made me chuckle to myself. His eyes scanned the screen and he bit down on his lips, meticulously clicking on some links, careful not to make any mistakes. It made me wonder if he knew about the little blue 'back' button at the top of the screen.

"Why did we stop here?" I asked, once we were walking again.

"I needed to make some arrangements."

I didn't ask what kind but I did ask him why I couldn't just have gone in there too. If he didn't want me to look at his screen, he just needed to ask and I would look away.

"I don't trust this technology. All these electronics seem dangerous to me. It is so easy for people to monitor what we are doing and watch us or something..." He took a deep breath. "I wouldn't want you to get yourself into that sheet."

Okay, this time he really had no excuse. Stan was gone, but his 'act' kept on going. No matter the circumstance, I muttered a 'thank you', but my suspicion rose.

Quiet came about once more but it didn't last long. Once we were three quarters of the way home, the Mole decided to speak again.

"Don't listen to him too much. The information he gives out is important, but other than that, you should just ignore his teasing." By the way he sounded, anyone could conclude that he had been running over and revising this explanation of his in his head for quite some time. Other than that, it was as if he was pleading with me, no...more like trying to prove something, explain himself. In my defence, I may be over analysing, but what made me come to these conclusions was that a) he stuttered, b) he used hand motions as he spoke, and c) he sounded unnaturally casual, which he never had before.

"Jeez, I know. He was just joking." I snorted at him, as we went up the stairs to the apartment.

"Oh, is that so?" He laughed. "That's not what those eyes of yours were telling me when he was 'joking'."

I stopped dead in my tracks in front of the door. He didn't seem to notice me (or just ignored it) and went in anyway.

It was the little things, I thought, that he said or did, that drove me to this point of uneasiness and discomfort because:

a) there was a secret about me they knew and I didn't.

b) Christophe doesn't really like this secret.

And c) I REALLY wish he would stop looking at my eyes!

"Christophe, please tell me that is not a cat you are cooking on the stove."

After having gotten to the apartment, we didn't speak a single word to each other and just let the time pass by until it was time to sleep. We laid down back to back as usual, fell asleep, but this time it wasn't his grunts of pain that woke me, it was in fact the smell of meat cooking coming from the kitchen.

"Why the fuck would you assume this is a cat?" He said in his hoarse voice.

"Last time I checked the fridge, which was yesterday, it was completely empty, so you cannot blame me for wondering where on earth you found this meat."

I narrowed my eyes at him, very pleased with myself for having made what was, in my opinion, a pretty good come back. However, my whole expression melted away as he looked at me from the corner of his eyes, and smirked, the side of his lips curling only slightly upwards, the type of smile with which he would flirt with a young lady from across the bar. A shiver ran down my spine and goose bumps appeared on my arms and under my jeans, on my legs. And in this filthy kitchen, I found myself praying to God that it was only the cold.

"Gregory." He started. "Please tell me, what time is it?"

I arched an eyebrow questioningly, for I knew he was about to make a point and wasn't just asking me because he needed the time. I glanced at the clock and without even thinking I answered him.

"It's 1:30." I said.

"While princess was sleeping quietly on the mattress, I went to the store to by some lunch...well in you case breakfast." He said, not taking his eyes off of the frying pan. "It's chicken, by the way, I'm sorry the cats just weren't cooperating today."

Damn. He won this one, but I made it a point to pretend like I didn't care.

"So what's the occasion?" I asked.

"We are taking a trip today dearest. We need to get to Manchester, the train leaves in the evening, so I thought we could have some good food now, change our clothes and get going, what do you think?" His tone had started off a little patronizing, I supposed he was teasing me again, but in the end, I believed he was really asking me for my opinion on the plan. Of course, me being my stupid self, said the most stupid thing I could have possibly said.

"I didn't bring any change of clothes."

Nice Gregory, real nice. Go ahead and impress him by sounding like a kid at a last minute sleepover.

"I bought you new ones. They were cheap so I just grabbed some random sheet. We can't go walking around in the same old clothes, it's disgusting." He said and wrinkled his nose a little, which was kind of funny.

"How did you know my size?"

Great Gregory, keep up the good work. This time you even sounded like a GIRL at a sleepover.

"I checked your shirt's tag while you were asleep. Any other questions? You want the material they're made of, if they're from China or Taiwan?"

"I'm going to pretend I didn't hear that." I said, slowly strolling out of the kitchen. "But I DO want to know where you got the money from."

The Mole chuckled and turned off the stove, dumping the chicken strips into a nearby plate with his other hand.

"You know Gregory, my clients DO may me a good enough amount for my services." He said. "It's not like it's easy to do and plus..." He walked passed me with two plates in his hand and settled them down on the table. "Some of them are desperate enough for me take advantage, understand? If I refuse, they beg. If I refuse again, beetches raise the price." He practically purred the last part.

"Now eat up, we have a train to catch."

We made it to the train station on time, at 4:45 PM. The whole ride would take us 2 hours and a half max, giving me the time to relax my nerves a little, unless Christophe decided to start talking like weirdo again. He had gotten back to normal this morning, or so I had thought until I saw the clothes he had bought.

The bastard had gotten himself a decent black T-shirt and a pair of cargo pants, just like the ones he already only, you know, less bloody. My clothes, at first glance, seemed all right. They were the exact same color of what I was already wearing only more comfortable looking at in a T-shirt form instead of a button down, which also appealed to me...until I put them on.

Women,, on several occasions, have told me that they posses clothing so tight, they can barely breathe. Me, being a realistic person, had always brushed those comments away, filing them down as exaggerations, but now, sitting in this train, wearing the world most tight fitting shirt ever made for men, I can somewhat understand what those women meant.

Two hours. No air. And I swear, if that French bastard stares me down one more time, I just might explode.


	5. Chapter 5

Cut me open

All the other kids

With their pumped up kicks

You better run, baby, run

Outrun my gun.

-Foster the People 

By the Unlucky-Charm

We disembarked in Manchester around 9 o'clock onto a crowded platform. A sea of people walking around in different directions, through which Christophe dragged me in fast run along with his giant duffel bag that kept banging itself against mine and other people's shins as he ran. Before I could even say anything about his injured leg he had taken me out into the cool Manchester night air. I swung around to begin my medical rant only to see him having some kind of tiny panic attack in front of me. He wouldn't stand still and kept tugging at his shirt as he tried to even out his shallow breaths. His face had gone completely white but I couldn't get a good enough look at it since he kept turning away from me.

"Hey, are you all right?" I asked, gently settling my hand on his shoulder.

He shrugged my hand away with a grunt and completely turned his back to me. Logically, I would have assumed he had hurt his leg again but he was holding his head in his palms and seemed to be pacing straight enough.

"Christophe...Are you hurt?" I asked anyway.

All of a sudden, he stood up straight with one last giant breath and looked at me with a slight smile.

"Claustrophobic." He said, looking away, as if ashamed.

Well that can't be good, I thought. In a job like his, being claustrophobic couldn't be anything good. Then again, we did mostly travel at night, in fact, there shouldn't have been that many people at the platform at this time in the night.

"One of the trains had a problem." He explained to me, reading my thoughts. "Those people have to wait for another one to arrive from London, that's why there were so many people."

I nodded.

"How bad is it?" I asked.

"Well there were about 250 people on the platform we had descended on, but I think if-"

"No, I mean your claustrophobia." I cut him off, even though he hated it. I wasn't about to listen to him explain to me how a train station worked.

"Oh." He paused. "That's none of your business."

"Come now, you can tell me." I said.

"Fine, let's just say that if you hug me or some shit, I'll be fine, but if 4 different people are hugging me at the same time, I'll murder them."

I pressed my lips together in order not to laugh at the image of people actually hugging him.

"Bad example?" He asked and then I just began laughing really loud. "Shut up, Brit, what the hell else could I have used?" He growled at me.

"I don't know." I said sarcastically, rolling my eyes. "People attacking you, tackling, cornering you? It's part of your job isn't it?" I told him.

For a second, he watched me speak, like he was looking for something on my face. His dark brown eyes kept shifting from under his permanent frown and he looked lost. I was sure he wasn't listening because he never answered me properly in the end, even after I proved him wrong.

"Whatever Brit, listen, while you were busy tugging at your clothes in the train for some reason, I devised a plan. So now make yourself useful and find me a place where we can discuss it."

I sighed and began walking on the sidewalk towards a brightly lit streets up ahead. It was a 5 minute walk away and I hoped that there would be somewhere quiet for us to talk. I was a bit angry at myself for not having contributed in the planning and I was even kind of embarrassed that he noticed my discomfort in the clothes he had bought me, so I was determined to at least find us a decent enough place. The cafe we had gone to with Whale Whore was perfect, so I tried finding one that would still be open.

"Any bar without dancing will do." He said and as the words left his mouth, I found one.

It was one of those underground places that looked like they were built IN the sidewalk. It was called 'Joker's' and as we went down the stairs, I noticed how empty it was.

"Perfect." I whispered to myself and opened the door.

The bar was bigger than I would have guessed, but maybe it just seemed that way because there were so little people. We took a booth in the far corner and a waitress instantly appeared at our table the second we sat down.

"Two beers, any kind." Christophe said.

The waitress giggled and nodded to him, walking away, swaying her hips more than necessary. But Christophe wasn't looking at her anymore; he was grabbing a few napkins from the dispenser and was laying them out on the table. Then, reaching out into his bag, he took out the envelope Stan had given to him and a pen.

"Whale Whore gave me this address before he left. It came with the other documents." He told me, and flung the piece of torn paper across the table. It spun like a Frisbee and landed right in front of me.

**5062, Browns street, apt. 402**

"Is this where they are?" I asked.

"Non. I don't know what the fucking address is for, but he didn't give it to me so I could go and take advantage of the services the whore who lives there has to offer. It must be important." He spat.

"Well should we go tonight and get it out of the way?" I asked, hoping he would say no and that instead of exhausting ourselves all the more, he would take me to some romantic suite where I could just fall asleep on the bed made of goddamn swan feathers.

"I think we should." He said, but looked just as enthusiastic as I was. "As soon as possible too, you're eyes look tired Cheri."

I nodded without processing what he had said. I guess I really was tired. It was one of those horrible feelings, where there is absolutely no energy left in your body and you are still forced to stay put in whatever situation you're in. You begin to curl your body in itself because no matter where you are, you still feel chilly. I remembered feeling like this as a child at weddings and baptisms. During the reception I would lay down on the chairs covered in my father's coat and fall asleep, until I was carried to the car and driven home to my warm bed.

"Don't worry about me." I said. I didn't ask why he had just called me Cheri, but I didn't want to know just in case it would anger him. The muscles in my lips were to tired to say much if he were to begin yelling at me.

I wrapped my arms around myself as I shuddered because of the chills that kept running through my body. It was the absolute proof of my fatigue. I didn't remember the bar being so cold when we first came in. I wanted a bed. Nothing more, just a bed. A mattress, a pillow and some sheets, that's all I ask.

I ended up not touching the beer that was brought to me. My head was already spinning by itself, alcohol would have knocked me right out. When Christophe finished up his own drink, we asked for the bill, which was brought to us by the same waitress moments later, wearing her same flirtatious grin. She handed it to Christophe directly and walked away with a flip of her hair. Again, every obvious move the girl made went unnoticed by the Frenchman and I wasn't sure whether it was a professional way of acting, or if he was just that pathetically clueless.

We both began taking out money from our pockets to pay up.

"It's okay." He said. "I got it."

He dropped a few bills onto the table and was about to reach into his duffel bag for a tip, when he began to hesitate and frowned at the bill.

"Is something wrong?" I asked, because he seemed to be eyeing the bill like the writing was written in Arabic. When I got no answer, I slid the bill towards me and his eyes followed it.

"I think it's for you." He said, a little awkward with his words.

I looked down at the bill, at first seeing only printed words and numbers listed neatly like any other bill on this planet. It was only when I fully unrolled it that I saw the writing in the white empty space under our payment.

**Call me, cutie 3**

**Emma, 742-0021**

Oh God this was funny. Oh, my, God, was this funny. I wish I could laugh. I wish I wasn't too dead tired to laugh, because oh LORD was this hilarious.

"How is this for me? She handed it to you, didn't she?" I told him, handing him the paper back with a slight smile.

"Well, it says cutie..." He mumbled, looking down angrily at her number.

What the hell was up with him? Cheri and cutie in one night? I'm sure he didn't mean to directly call me cute, but that's what it had sounded like. It was either that, or the idea of his being cute was just so unbelievable to him...

"So? She was obviously speaking of you." I told him and yawned. Now I was sort of calling HIM cute. We're all so awkward and cute this evening, aren't we? All this exhaustion is going to my head. One can tell when they start seeing cuteness in Christophe.

"Whatever." He said, but shut up quickly because 'Emma' had returned to our table.

"You guys need anything else?" She asked.

I didn't say anything since it was already like I wasn't there. I didn't mind; it was entertaining to watch. Christophe shook his head. He was sitting like the perfect student: back straight and hands brought together between his legs. If I had taken him with me to London when we were ten, that's what he would have been like at my school. He stared up at her with his brown eyes, big and round at the time, very lost looking. The waitress grinned at him, winked and walked away .

I had to bite down on my finger and shut my eyes, trying to go into some kind of meditative state because if I didn't, I'd surely be laughing myself to tears. A few hiccups and chuckles managed to slip out and make my shoulders shake, but I knew all hope was lost when tears actually began trickling above my cheeks.

"You are a fucking ass." He told me and I just couldn't hold it in anymore.

Oh God, I couldn't breathe! Oh God, I was going to die like this, I was sure. I was about to pee my pants and then die of laughter. His face was just TOO much. Priceless!

"I swear I'm going to kill you."

I tried to look at him but it was pointless since it just made me laugh some more. It seemed to be bothering him enough, so why stop?

Eventually, he sighed, saying something about asking directions and left. I got up after him and stepped outside.

"Poor guy." I said to myself, he probably wasn't used to being hit on. I was kind of disappointed though. I mean a man with his looks and build was bound to attract women. Then again, he wasn't very comfortable with the situation. Logically, by now he should have been used to it. Sure, the first three times I got hit on, I wasn't really sure of myself, but then I became quite a flirt myself. Heh, Christophe flirting...that should be fun to watch.

"Hey, cutie." A familiar certain someone called from behind me.

"Mole?"

"Come. I know where to go."

That was our cue to start walking, but I didn't budge. I kept staring at him and then it hit that I've been doing that a lot lately. In the beginning, I actually had something to stare at, but now, I was searching for answers. How dare he. Confusing me like this, playing these mind games with me.

'Don't look at me like that.' I thought, and suddenly, I felt furious. 'Don't act as if you didn't just call me cutie. Don't pretend that it's a normal thing to do.'

Why would he call me that, and why is it effecting me so much? It's not real, I know that, but do I want it to be? Of course not! What kind of man calls another man cute other than for the soul purpose of joking around? Well Mole, why the FUCK aren't you laughing? You look pretty serious to me!

"Don't look at me like that with those eyes of yours, we have to go." He said and began walking away,

My eyes, eh? Well Mole, you can't flirt with women, but you seem to be doing just fine with me...

I took a deep breath and took off in a quick step after him.

The apartment we found could have been the exact replica of Christophe's back in London. It was old, worn out, and not very sanitary. We went up the stairs, dragging along our bags and his giant duffel bag. On the fourth floor we finally found the place, its door left wide open. Two people stood in front of it. The person outside, his back to us, was a bad man, dressed in a dirty white tank top and jeans that matched the top's cleanliness

"C'mon man! I don't have that kind of money!" He whined, trying to reason with the man standing inside the apartment. He, unlike his client, was much cleaner and much odder.

"Well that's not my problem! I don't make any exceptions Charlie, you know that ol' chap." The other guy answered strictly.

I titled my head to get a better look at him and the more I saw, the weirder he was. He was wearing this grey puffed hat with a red cap over his blonde bob of hair. He was wearing this sleeveless shirt, also grey, it seemed as though he had cut off the sleeves himself to show off his large biceps and shoulders. And to top it all off, he had a big red ribbon tied around his neck that fell in the center of his chest. He was okay looking, but was kind of leaning towards the 'cross dresser' look. For such a...girlish outfit, he had a strong looking body. At least that's what I deduced by the size of his arms and shoulders.

"Listen Charlie." He said. "If you don't have the money, then get lost. I have other clients." He jerked his head towards us.

"I'm not done with you." The one named Charlie said at the top of the staircase. "I'll be back!" He yelled and stormed off,

"Sure you will!" The apartment's owner called back. "You bloody nut." He added under his nose.

"Um, hello." Christophe began. "We were given this address." He handed him the paper.

The man examined it and turned it over a few times as if new writing would appear.

"Who sent you?" He asked suspiciously.

"Whale Whore." I answered after a nod from Mole.

"Oh, I see." He said. "Come in."

He walked into his place with us silently following. He sat himself down onto the couch, still reading the note. He crossed one leg over the other and only then did I notice the pair of sharp, pointy white shoes on his feet. This guy was either some kind of weird-ass, cross dressing pimp, or a cross dressing dealer of the underworld. Either way, I was convince of his being a cross dresser.

"Mole right?" He asked, not looking up from the paper. What was so interesting about it? It was his own address!

"Yes, that's me. This is my partner."

"In life?"

"No!" I stepped in, chuckling uneasily. "In work."

I knew Christophe would have probably corrected him himself, but I couldn't trust him in that department anymore. I don't know what was going on with him lately with all the compliments he's been throwing at me in a round bout manner. I didn't know his tolerance level of comments like these and how many he would just let pass, but I refused to let anyone think that I was is 'partner in life'.

"I see...Well, the name's Pip and that's all I'm telling you about me."

He threw the paper aside onto a coffee table and then turned to us.

"Do you know why you're here?" he asked, sensing our cluelessness. When we both shook our heads to no, he crossed his muscular arms over his chest, making them flex all the more. "Heh, you two armed?" He asked.

"He has a 12 inch switchblade." Christophe said. "I have my own weapon."

"Which is...?"

"My shovel."

"Ha!" Pip clapped his hands together. "You think you can do shit with a shovel? No wonder Sta- Whale Whore sent you."

"You sell...weaponry?" I asked hesitantly because this apartment didn't really look like a licensed establishment to be allowed to sell such things.

"ILLEGAL weaponry my good sir." He corrected me cockily, for some reason sounding proud about it.

I suddenly got excited and scared at the same time. I had never done anything illegal before, it made me feel this weird adrenaline rush. Did this mean I was going to be carrying a gun from now on? I hoped but I was predicting disappointment since Christophe didn't look to pleased with the idea.

"Why did he send us to you? Does he think we can't fight? We don't need fucking guns!" He snarled at Pip.

"Sure! You can fight, but that's not going to help you in this case ol' chap." He said with a sigh. He got up and made his way to a wall that, I just noticed, was covered in these vertical drawers. No, literally. Vertical. Drawers. Even the handles were sitting straight. Was it some kind of new, efficient, fancy Swedish design?

With one swift movement, Pip opened it and turns out, it wasn't really meant to hang clothes on... and it probably wasn't Swedish either.

"This is what I can offer. All expenses will be paid by your employer, Whale Whore."

What slid out from the wall was not a drawer, but a wooden plank with an impressive collection of guns hanging on them. It was like something from a movie.

"Look." Christophe said impatiently and stood up. "We don't need this sheet, so we will be leaving." He grabbed my hand and pulled.

"All right, look," Pip said, running his hands through his hair. "You can be as stubborn as you like with your fancy moves and martial arts crap, but if you get shot, that Asian fighting is not going to save you!" He spat at him rudely, pointing his finger.

Christophe stared straight back at him angrily, visibly gritting his teeth. His hand, that hadn't yet let go of my own, tightened its grip and possibly cut off my circulation.

"No it won't." He said in a terrifying calm that made a chill go through me. "But HE will." He growled, raising my hand up only slightly.

"Pffft! What is he, like, a doctor or some shit?" He asked, crossing his arms over his chest and rolling his eyes. He acted like it was the most ridiculous idea ever to be thought of.

"Precisely." Christophe said cockily, as if he was the doctor, but it still pleased me how it sounded like he was praising me.

Pip seemed taken aback. He was obviously expecting something on a lower level, like a male nurse or whatever.

"Like...legit?" He said, sounding surprised and very stupid at the same time.

"Yes you faggot, he's a fucking M.D."

"I see, but that doesn't change the fact that you two need some guns. It's free, just take 'em and leave!"

"No we don't need them!" He yelled.

Pip chuckled and sat back down, leaving the vertical drawer open.

"Fine. I just want to say that you might wanna take into consideration that your rivals probably DO possess guns and such. You might know how to get around with your...shovel, but Doctor Blondie here doesn't seem very trained to my eyes." He spoke in a semi-patronizing tone, slowly too.

"Your point?" Christophe inquired angrily.

"You might wanna pick up at least 1 or 2 for him, just to be prudent...not that owning a gun in the first place is prudent, but just to be safe, you know?" He got up and walked back to the collection of weapons. "You need to this if HIS safety as well, Mole."

Christophe's face instantly softened at the mention of my 'safety' and he suddenly looked a little flushed.

"Nothing too big." He said. He went over to the wall himself and began examining. "Some small pistol or revolver or something like that."

They began looking at some models and went into this salesman/client mode. Pip held up a few 'specimens' like he kept calling them, and talking about aim and things I didn't fully grasp. Christophe would nod along like a robot, which made me wonder if he was actually containing everything Pip as explaining. Every now and then he'd ask a question about price, but weren't the others from America covering it? Anyhow, they never asked me what I wanted, but that was good thing no matter how much I hated to admit it because my feelings about weaponry were very...controversial: I don't know ANYTHING about it, but I REALLY want a big black one. Childish right? Question is, would I even be able to use it? I doubted being able to use the small ones. If I told them that, they would surely laugh. Well, excuse ME for never having murdered anyone in my life. I never had the opportunity to do such respective and ENVIOUS jobs such 'hired assassin' or 'illegal weapons dealer'! Bloody doctors like me don't really carry around guns, Goddamnit! I wonder if I could choke someone with a stethoscope...

"Gregory!" Christophe called me over. "Look at this one, is it okay?"

"Yeah, yeah." I said, reassuringly. "That's fine."

Hey, it was black, it was shaped like a gun and I could hide it, so yeah, it was fine right?

"Gregory are you sure?"

I nodded.

I hated it when he used my name. It always made my heart stop for a second, because he usually uses it in serious situations, so I start thinking that something is wrong. He rolled the R's because if his accent, it made my name sound ridiculous, like the sound a lion would make id you tried choking it. I loved how it sounded.

"Pleasure doing business." Pip said and we left, the gun securely thrown into the duffel bag with our other 'weapons'.

"Where to now?" I asked.

"Motel. Hopefully it's crappy and close enough to theirs." He answered me.

"Why?"

"The crappier it is, the bigger chance that our targets are staying there too."

I found little logic in that kind of reasoning, but I guess he knew best when it came to crappy places to stay. If it were up to me; the fruit of my pampered childhood, would lead us straight to a Hilton.

We took a cab there and when Christophe said crappy, he was being VERY nice. The place was a mess, plainly disgusting. I tried to hide my unhappiness in fear of him making fun of me and calling me a pussy again, but seriously speaking, it was terrible!

"T.B. and his ginger friend stayed here a few nights ago, but I believe they have left by now.." He took a drag from the cigarette he lit. "...to somewhere not far from here. They're on the move." He explained to me, while he shook his head, looking very empty minded.

"How do you know all this?" I asked him, obliged to cover the nervousness of my shaky voice thanks to the giant cockroach that just crawled across the room.

He didn't answer me, but the slightest of smiles creeped onto his face as he continued to shake his head. I cleared my throat to get his attention, but nothing.

"What are you thinking about?" I asked him, putting my hand onto his shoulder and tugging gently. I didn't like it when he was like that. I didn't like it when I didn't know what he was thinking about because in the end he would always come up with a plan and refused to share it with me.

He started a little at my touch but finally turned around, the small smile gone and the cigarette back into his mouth.

"These guys aren't trained nor experienced, Gregory." He told me. "They are being VERY precautious and VERY careful. They don't stay anywhere long, they move on to the next sheety motel and you know what that means?" He asked me a question and I didn't know what to answer. Was it good or bad that they being careful? I couldn't even tell by his tone of voice.

"Um, we should be careful too?" I said, my sentence sounding very much like a question.

"Non mon Cher, it means they are scared. These people have NO idea what they are doing and I'm determined to show them that this world they have stepped in, is mine and it's not fucking spy film. What would have been prudent of them would be to have stepped out, but now it's too late; now, I have to get rid of them myself." He said sounding...well, INSANE.

"Ch-Christophe, why don't we just go over there now, kill T.B., hit Scott over the head to knock him out and just leave." I suggested, hoping he would find my stupidly simple idea very good. I really just wanted all of this to end. However, I must come to admit that it is the most fun I've had in the longest time. Of course, I can't tell him that because I'm sure according to him, this job was everything but 'fun'.

"Too risky." He kicked his bag off the bed and lay there himself. "I want to surprise them."

"So we're going tomorrow?"

"No, I was thinking we could go to the spa first and get our nails done! Of course tomorrow! When the fuck else?" He bitched at me.

'Just like a child...' I thought. 'Gets cranky when they missed their nap.'

"All right then, I'm sorry." I said and started to make my way out of the main bedroom.

"Where are you going?" He called after me only a second after I was out in the hallway.

"To sleep." I said, appearing back into the doorway, only too see him laying on his back shirtless with his arms on the back of his neck.

"There are no other beds here." He said.

"I know, but there's a couch so I thought I could-"

"Gregory." He cut me off. "Just get in." He said and slammed his hand on the empty space next to him, making his hand bounce of the mattress.

"Um... all right?"

I lay myself down slowly onto the mattress, over the covers because it was really hot in the room. I turned my back to him and curled up in a foetal position, trying to organize my thoughts. Tomorrow was going to be intense. There would be a lot of action I hoped and I hoped even more that Christophe would not get hurt.

'Then I'd have to cut him open.' I thought to myself and rolled my eyes.

I was having trouble going to sleep, despite how tired I was. I was okay five minutes ago, but you know that feeling of being watched? Well...I was being watched. Why? I don't know. But all I knew was, I could feel his eyes on my back and his presence in the bed became all the more bothersome. First he forces me to sleep in the same bed as him, even though previously when we were at his house, he never forgot to mention how much he hated sharing the mattress with me. Now, he decides to watch me while I 'sleep'. What I really wanted to do was turn around and check if he was looking, but I was kind of scared of meeting his eyes like that. He would probably ask me why I wasn't asleep even though he was awake too and then nag me about it. Well, Christophe doesn't really nag, it's more like he's growling, which is even worse because it gives you little choice. Basically, you do what he says.

An hour later, I heard him snoring, which was like a green light to my eyelids, as began to feel heavier and heavier, drifting me off to sleep.

Right before dawn rolled around, he woke up, standing in front of me, fully clothed and ready to leave.

"Hurry up for fuck's sake." He spat at my half asleep self.

I was ready to bet that he woke up, immediately got ready and purposefully forgot to wake ME up just to be able to tell me to hurry, as if I was supposed to be ready by then. I didn't even where we were supposed to be going or what we were going to do...well, I did, but not specifically. And so, in spite of that, I took my precious time, also giving me the chance to go over the upcoming events of that day. It wall came down to one single question, which I stored in my mind until we were out of the motel.

"How do you even know where they are?" I asked him, once we were outside.

"I figured it out."

"I don't quite follow."

"Did you even READ the information that was sent to us?"

"No...you hid it in your shovel and if I ever touch your shovel, you will kill me...WITH your shovel!"

"Don't be a smartass." He hissed at me. "But basically it said that neither of them had a job, didn't come from rich families and thanks to Triple J, their bank accounts are practically empty. Beetches don't have money, understand?"

"Kind of..." I said. I did understand, but I still didn't think it was right to assume they'd be in this region.

"Look. A plane ticket from America to here is already expensive. On top of that, T.B. took a train. So logically, I would say that when they got here, they would only use their money on necessary things."

I was beginning to follow what he was saying. "And if they bought guns..." I added, unsure of myself.

"Exactly. The assholes probably have to eat too right? So, as to save what they got, I believe they walked from the train station to the shithole we stayed in last night and then kept moving to other shitholes nearby."

And we did the same. From the shithole we stayed in the previous night, we moved to the shithole next door and the shithole right after that one. It was only by the time that we reached the third shithole that Christophe came to a halt.

He squinted his eyes at the motel entrance where a few people were standing smoking. I wasn't sure what he was looking at exactly but I didn't say anything just in case he was thinking up a plan.

"Is that Triple J...?" He mumbled to himself.

I followed his gaze as we got closer and closer to the place, to a specific individual with bright orange hair. I couldn't get a look at his face, but his carrot top could be seen from a mile away.

"The redhead?" I asked.

"Yeah..."

The redhead was leaning on the wall, lazily smoking his cigarette and checking his watch every now and then. We got closer and then it was clear to me. That was definitely NOT Triple J. I gasped at the sight of his face, grabbed Christophe and pulled dragged us out of the man's sight.

"What are you doing?" He hissed at me.

"You idiot, that's him! That's Scott." I whispered angrily.

"What? No, it's not. How the fuck would you know." He answered.

"Keep your voice down! And yes that IS him! It's the same guy from the picture that was given to us!" I was getting really angry with this guy. He could have given us away! "Did you NOT look at the pictures given to us?" I asked.

"Non, I did not. They were old pictures, so I did not trust them." He paused for a second and suddenly frowned. "Hey! Those were in my shovel- did you touch me shovel!"

"No I just- This is not the time! That's our guy! What do we do!" I yelled/whispered at him impatiently. He was keeping way too calm. We were a few meters away from a possible murderer, how could he just stand there casually as if nothing was wrong! Then again, I've been sleeping next to a possible killer for the last few days, so I guess killers feel comfortable around other killers...?

"Is he holding any bags?" Christophe asked, tilting his head to the side to look behind me.

"No, why?"

"Then he's not changing hotels."

"Ah."

A few minutes later, another man walked out, obviously Trent Boyette. The two nodded and began walking down the street, like two friends going out for a coffee.

"We're checking in." Christophe said and dragged me out of our corner and into the motel. We got a room and settled in, but a second hadn't passed when Christophe began planning again.

"12, 34, 36 or 47." He said.

"Numbers?"

"The key rooms that were missing. One of those rooms is theirs."

"You memorized them?" I said, surprised. I never thought he would be THAT clever, I mean I wouldn't have thought of doing that.

"Oui."

"So, what's the plan?"

"Simple. We find their room, barge in, kill the bastard and leave."

"What about Scott?"

"Eh, we will rough him up a little and then run away. The idiot will try to get revenge and come to us later. He will do the work of capturing him for us." He said and chuckled. "These American are stupider than you think, mon Cher."

I laughed as well. That was one thing we could agree on.

For the rest of the day, we walked around town, ate at a diner... we actually just talked and enjoyed ourselves. We got a few looks from some people. I convinced myself that it WASN'T because we looked very gay, but yes...it was.

When we got back, Christophe collapsed and I was about to do the same when he flashed this adorable smile at me. Shocked, my eyes widened as I took an involuntary step back.

"Gregoryyyy..." He said in a pleading tone. "Will you please do me a favour?"

"What the hell do you want?" I said smiling and sat myself at his feet.

"Go check the keys again. I want to know if any of the keys have been returned."

"Awwww, can't we do that tomorrow?" I really didn't feel like getting up.

"PLEASE!" He said, stuffing his face into the pillow. "If you do I will love you forever."

I puffed in laughter and eventually agreed. "Fine, but please, don't love me forever."

From the corner of his eye, he smiled at me. "We'll see."

I stepped out and gently closed the door behind me. Questions swarmed in my head, but I didn't let any of them bother me. I had a nice time today, and I was way too tired to try and analyse Christophe. Besides, after I checked the keys, he would love me forever right? That was good. Disturbing, but I don't see how him actually liking me could bring negative results. When he wasn't thinking about work or stressing over everything, he wasn't really that bad. He was still fucking crazy and called me gay on several occasions, but he was very nice to me today. However, one thing I noticed was that he didn't like talking about women. I thought that maybe he just didn't feel comfortable, but today at the diner, the waitress was quite pretty. When I pointed it out, he shrugged and changed the subject. It happened a few times again. He didn't blush or anything, but he just didn't seem to care.

"Why hello Gregory." I heard a voice coming from behind me, but before a could turn around to see who, something hard came in contact with the side of my head.

Everything went black.


	6. Chapter 6

Cut me open

So sacrifice yourself

And let me have what's left,

I know that I can find

The fire in your eyes.

Breaking Benjamin

By the Unlucky-Charm

I woke in a haze of pain and discomfort. My head ached but what strike me first was the disability to move my limbs and the rope burns on my wrists which worsened with every movement I tried to make. I couldn't remember but judging by the situation, the previous events became obvious. Question was, how was I to escape and where was the Mole. The last thing I wanted was for him to save me and then listen to him bitch about damsels in distress. In his mind, that would be me.

I struggled in my seat, but I was bound very tightly and the only thing that budged was the chair, threatening to fall over.

"Shit." I hissed.

The hotel room I was trapped in was very different than the one I was sharing with Christophe last night. Did this mean we were in a different hotel or was this just a different type of room. The last seemed very unlikely. Besides, it would be very unwise of them to remain in our same hotel, especially after having kidnapped me. I wondered how long I had been out.

My kidnappers were nowhere in sight and if they were in the room, they were being awfully quiet. Oddly enough, the lights were on and from where I sat, I could see the twin beds and the night table between them. Christophe had mentioned me losing my touch and this was a chance to prove him wrong. On top of the small table lay a note pad. This one object would determine my location. On the side of each sheet, was printed the logo of the hotel. My assumptions turned out to be right. Even though I couldn't clearly make out the name, this was definitely a different place. I needed to act fast.

First thing I did was go over the backgrounds of our suspects in my head again. Point was, neither of them had any special skills in this field of work (not that I did), which put us on the same level of expertise. His work with ropes wasn't as impressive as it was annoying. The rope ran around my ankles twice and then around my feet, over and under my shoes, binding them together. The knot was located on top of my left sneaker, which made me wonder if that was the only knot he had made. If so, it gave and idea.

Little by little, I began rubbing my two feet against each other and, just as I had hoped,, my shoes began to slide off along with the rope around them. When my shoes finally dropped to the ground, I managed to wiggle my feet out of the loosened bounds. I could walk.

My arms and hands still tightly attached to the bloody chair, I had trouble moving around freely. Wherever I tried to go, I was forced to carry the stupid thing with me. At first, I attempted opening the door but I will not even begin to narrate how much of a failure I was. My next try was the phone. I thought of dialling with my chin or tongue, but who could I call? I began punching a few numbers, but suddenly I heard click coming fm the door. Without a second thought, I went back into my initial position on the chair and stuck my feet together as an illusion.

The door swung open and in came a trolley filled with cleaning products.

"AGH!" The maid that was pushing it yelled in a shrill voice when she set eyes on me. She was about to back away, but how could I let my only hope of escaping leave?

"Wait! It's a joke!" I called after her.

She looked puzzled, but who could blame her.

"Last night..." I had to think of a story quick before she suspected anything. "My...er, boyfriend and I..." I saw a small smirk settle on her face. "It got a little kinky...could you...?"

She blushed and smiled, pushing her trolley back into the room and stepping around it to untie me. Without a word she undid the knots, and even commenting on what a good job my 'boyfriend' had done. I thanked and tipped her, avoiding her eyes at all times. On my way out, I grabbed an envelope from the drawer and I shut the door behind me.

Relieved, I took a deep breath and let it out. Wait, did I just tell the maid I had a boyfriend? No, I MUST have said girlfriend, there's no way I said... Why would I...

...

Fuck.

Putting aside my embarrassment and confusion on my own words, I checked the room number and ran downstairs to the lobby.

"Excuse me." I said to the receptionist. "Would you happen to know where the occupants of room 470 have gone?"

The man behind the counter looked a little hesitant so I took the folded envelope out of my pocket and showed it to him. "They forgot this. It's very important, they need it for...um, a meeting they have today."

He seemed to have understood and began rummaging on his desk. "I don't know if you will be able to catch them, but they went out to this address. They asked me for the directions." He slid a piece of paper across the counter, with a fee words and numbers badly scribbled on it.

"Said they were to meet up with someone."

"Thank you." I ran out of the building.

I had to get to Christophe.

The address I held in my hand was the living proof of how inexperienced my opponents were. How stupid would you have to be to actually ask direction when you're clearly up to no good. The only I could hope for was that this paper would lead me straight to Christophe and no anywhere I was supposed to be. I slowed my pace at the thought of that possibility. What if this was just a trick? What if they had it all planned out from the beginning? My mind went to the removal of my shoes and the maid's rescue. There was no way they had anticipated all of that. The Mole said it himself: They had no idea what they were doing.

Half an hour passed and I realised that maybe I had not much of idea either. I had to ask for directions myself a few times and id Christophe was really being held hostage or something, he could be dead by now!

"God, I suck." I muttered under my breath as I made my way into the garage of some trashy building. These people seem to have a preference to these buildings because in last few weeks or so, I've been traveling from one ghetto to another. This place was no exception. However, this building was not even close to be inhabited. It looked more like some kind of factory. I was not sure if it were abandoned or not, but there were parked cars around, so I assumed it to be wise not to touch any of the machinery.

I cautiously walked in and began looking around, snooping around corners and most importantly, listening in for any kind of sound or voice.

I found some stairs and followed them up until I found myself in a maze of corridors and rooms that I believed were offices. I hurried my pace and began jogging around, familiarizing myself as much I could in case of a needed quick escape. Surely enough, before I made my fourth turn to a new hallway, a series of whispers reached my ears.

"Just bail man, it can't be too hard. I'll him live. Everyone wins." A loud American voice spoke.. I creeped loser, my back against the wall, hoping I could get a glimpse of the people around the corner.

"Where the fuck is he?"

My heart skipped a beat at the sound of Christophe's angry tone of voice and I had to resist to run into view. I had to let him know I wasn't a hostage...anymore, I guess.

"We have a few options here." The other man continued. "You give up and we let everyone live or you don't give up the job and we kill both of you." I sensed the grin that played on his lips. "Win. Win."

This should be easy, I thought. I step into view with my gun, shoot the bastard and save the Mole.

...

I don't have my gun...

GOD I SUCK! I yelled at myself in my head. Well fuck that then.

While making as little noise as possible, I stepped into the large hallway. The man's back was turned to me and Christophe must have understood what I was doing because he didn't react or even shift his gaze noticeably enough. His hand were in the air, framing his head. The redheaded man held a gun pointing straight at his chest. I shrugged, showing him that I had no ideas what I was doing, pulled up my sleeves and charged the guy.

I don't remember much, but I think I was screaming. When I took my first few steps the guy heard me and turned around, but before he could even react or think of making a move, my fist had already connected with the side of his head. He flew to the side and almost tripped over his feet, but even before letting him recover, I socked him in the stomach a few times. He pulled the trigger and few bullets began flying all over the place, missing me completely. I hoped Christophe would do something soon because I wasn't sure how long I could keep this up. A matter of 2 seconds later, I heard two gunshots and the redhead was on the floor.

"Shit..." He hissed, grabbed his bleeding leg. I leaned over and grabbed the gun he had dropped in front of him. He wasn't the guy we were supposed to kill but at least he was somewhat crippled now.

I pointed the gun at him. "Run." I ordered. He didn't think twice and sped away.

I dropped the gun to the floor, not liking the feeling of holding a weapon that was about to kill Christophe and turned to the man in question. He was already staring straight at me, his head the slightest bit lowered and his expression twisted in anger. It seemed like my faith would soon resemble the one of the redhead's.

"Christophe?"

The deepest of frowns lowered over his maddened eyes, as he marched his way towards me. His lips were parted and curled into a snarl, leaving in full view his gritting teeth. If I listened closely, I could hear a growl at the bottom of his throat, like some rabid animal's.

"Beetch!" He grabbed my shoulders tightly and began to shake me back and forth. "Do you KNOW how fucking worried I was! I'm going to fucking KILL YOU!" He roared into my face, his fingers digging into my flesh. His breathing was loud and shallow, which added to the deadly look on his face. "What the FUCK is WRONG WITH YOU!" He kept yelling.

His hands switched and my face was suddenly being crushed in his palms. "Fucking IDIOT! Why didn't you call for help? I thought you were DEAD! I was about to give away ALL THE INFORMATION! Do you even UNDERSTAND HOW WORRIED I WAS! They were going to MURDER YOU!" He spat the words, his face now only an inch away from mine. His breathing had slowed, but remained uneven. His eyes had shifted from my own and had gone slightly lower. He suddenly looked a little less crazed and a little more distracted.

"You fucking..." He clenched his jaw. "Stupid..." His voice trailed off and became nothing but a husky whisper. I tried to meet his eyes but they were concentrated on something. What, I couldn't tell.

"Damn Abercrombie model..." His eyes fell shut as he closed the distance between us. His lips attacked my own with no hint of hesitation. For about half a second, I froze in place, not having really expected him to kiss me, I wasn't sure what to do. But when his large hands went for my waist and pulled me close, I gave in and began kissing back. I wrapped my arms around his neck tightly, grabbing on to the dark fabric of his shirt.

"You...fuck-...scared me." He hissed through wet kisses.

His lips were rough and the thin skin felt uneven and bumpy. I could only assume it was the several cuts and bruises that stained his mouth that were rubbing against my own. It wasn't my first time kissing someone, but this was Christophe, so I forgot just like I had forgotten everything else. 

His tongue ran over my lower lip every time we switched sides which also gave us short glances of each other's flushed faces. I hesitantly tried opening my mouth a little more to let him in, but I backed out a few times not to seem too needy. Apparently, Christophe had a better idea. He grabbed my own tongue between his lips before I could withdraw and slowly swirled his around it. I let a moan slip out unintentionally and I swear I heard him chuckled against my lips. 

His arms, that were wrapped around my waist began pulling me all the closer to him. What would have seemed uncomfortable to me a few days ago was noting but a turn on now as our crotches rubbed against each other, the friction of our pants; a terrible tease. In response, I tangled my fingers into his messy brown hair and tugged, pulling out a few groans from him. 

Our lips finally parted, but our faces still stuck together with my nose pressed against his and his hands now cupping my face. We both breathed heavily, gasping for air. His eyes were closed which gave me a chance to get a proper look at his face. He looked wild, but yet calmer than usual, even though I had sort of messed up his hair. Besides, it made him look extremely sexy. 

I blinked as a chunk of hair landed in between my eyes and thought that maybe my own hair wasn't as neat as I remembered it. Angry, because I hated when my hair got ruined, I crossed my eyes and stared in a reproachful manner at the strand as if it had disobeyed me. My expression instantly shifted, as a chuckle coming from literally an inch away startled me. 

"Cher, que fais-tu?" He asked. My French wasn't very good, but I believed he said something alone the lines of "Cher, what are you doing?". I assumed he meant about the cross-eyed idiotic face I was making, humiliating myself in front of the Frenchman once more. At least he was teasing, so I had a reason to blush my ass off. 

"Adorable." He purred huskily in French and planted a wet kiss on my neck. "Shall we leave before the other one gets here." 

"That would be best." 

We walked to a motel, one we hadn't been to before and hopefully didn't smell too bad. We walked in silence, a small smile on each of our lips. I kept my hands in my pocket casually and looked ahead, unlike Christophe, who kept glancing at my hand...well, my wrist since technically you couldn't see past that. I saw him stare at it quizzically, as if he was considering something. Now, what could be oh so very interesting about my hand? 

"Do you actually want to hold me hand!"I asked in surprise, because it seemed he really did want to. 

"W-What? Non! Don't be such an idiot, fucking faggot!" He snapped (and stuttered!), crossed his arms over his chest and pouted like a child. 

"Adorable." I muttered in French and smiled when he shot me an embarrassed death glare.


	7. Chapter 7

Cut me open

Hope I didn't speak too soon

My eyes have always followed you around the room

'Cause you're the only God that I will ever need.

-Noel Gallagher 

By the Unlucky-Charm

"What about this one?"

We had been playing this game for a while now and I really didn't want it to end. I stared up at him; he didn't seem to want that either. It was morning now, but neither of us wanted to move. Despite the honest amount of sleep we had gotten, we were drained.

Last night, nothing much happened once we got to the motel. It was hot too so we took off our shirts and went to bed. As natural as he made it seem, he surprised me in the dark by taking me into his arms and settling me on his chest where I ended up falling asleep. But now it was morning, which meant there was light out. You could imagine my reaction waking up on roughened skin covered in scars. My intention was to reproach him of his recklessness, but turns out, each one had a story.

"That was a beetch." He chuckled. "The asshole didn't know how to use a knife and cut me deep with the wrong end of the blade. Slowly."

I flinched. Then again, I had been flinching all morning. His stories sounded painful. I ran my finger gently over that one too and drew circles on his skin.

"What's the most interesting one?" I asked.

"You are laying on it."

Half heartedly, I peeled off my head from his chest. In the center of both his pectorals was a very light pink line of barely 3 inches. It had healed and was barely visible even from a close distance.

"This?"

"Mmhmm."

"What happened?"

He sighed and sat up, pulling me towards him. I put my head on his shoulder and played with the brown locks of hair going over his neck.

"It was a while ago. I was in Germany and I had to steal some kind of information. It was my first time hacking into a computer so I was a little bit nervous." He narrated, leaning over and grabbing his box of cigarettes. "I knocked the guy unconscious and let him lay down on the floor. I thought we were alone in the house."

"So, I'm guessing you weren't?"

"Oui. He had a daughter. Five years old, curly blonde hair and the largest blue eyes I have ever seen in my life. She wasn't too happy about me hurting her father." He put the cigarette between his lips and he lit it. "The man had used a butterfly knife against me." He took a drag and relaxed a little. "I hadn't seen her walk in, but when I memorized the information and turned to leave, I was faced with a very unhappy little girl who, apparently, knew some sheet about knife throwing."

He ended his story and I snorted out a laugh. "What'd you do then?"

"I ran." He laughed. "It's nothing compared to guard dogs, but she looked like those little girls from horror movies so that kind of freaked me out." He finished his sentence with a string of smoke flowing out of his mouth. I wondered if I breathed it in, would it taste like Christophe. No, definitely not. I went to medical school, I think I would know at least that much. But it wasn't how the smoke was destroying his lungs that caught my attention, it was the beauty of how it unfurled itself over our heads and I found myself actually asking for one.

"Can I have one?" I asked and was instantly rewarded a full kiss on the lips. "No, I meant a cigarette."

"Oh. Then no." He simply responded, taking another long drag.

"Why not?" I demanded.

"We can't afford to have the both of us slowly dying, now can we?" He asked rhetorically.

"Can't we have neither of us slowly dying?"

"Non."

I decided not to bother arguing because he knew as well as I did how ridiculous that sounded. With one last squeeze to my shoulder, he untangled the covers around our legs and moved out. I grunted in displeasure at the loss of warmth he had provided me with all night and added more layers of sheets over me.

"Do we really need to move?" I whined, which was unlike me.

"We have to go get our things from the other motel."

Fuck. I had forgotten about that and being reminded just got me thinking about how gross I must currently be, wearing the same clothes and not having showered. I felt greasy.

"I fancy a shower." I stated suggestively.

"Go ahead." He said and slid on his jeans.

Bloody Frenchman doesn't get signals.

With a sigh, I stepped into the bathroom...alone. The shower was nice, but I half wished he was in there with me. When I was alone I got to think and that usually led to several pessimistic thoughts.

He kissed me yesterday and it wasn't very delicate either. Despite how horny that made me, we didn't do much when we got home. He just held me a lot. It was nice, but it didn't satisfy the needs growing in my pants. I never knew he could be so tender and it almost made me laugh. I would have been blown away if it weren't for his awkward movements of affection and the fact that I really wanted him to fuck me at that second. Question is, what does all of this make us now? Personally, I don't really need a name for us. I am not one to label things and if that's all we are, a 'thing', then that's fine with me. However, I'm not quite comfortable about it yet. He is new to me and I still don't know whether or not to make a move and whether or not it's the right move to make! Maybe I should just let him do the work, he seems to enjoy work anyway...but then I don't want him thinking that I'm pushing him away. It's not like I'm not willing, I'm more than willing! Would that scare him though? ...

Maybe I should get out of this bloody shower.

The second I turned off the water, I heard voices coming from outside. Great, more people trying to kill us, I thought. I stepped closer to the door to listen in, but heard nothing suspicious. Just Christophe and this other person talking.

"Listen to me you freak of nature. I am NOT going back there!" I heard him shout. Go back where? Jail?

"I don't have time for this!" The other man hissed. "This is the message. There's been another attack and that's all I know." His voice made a displeasing shiver run down my spine. It was a smooth voice, but came out as a roughened whisper.

"Who is –"

"I don't know any more! I told you." He stopped Christophe and then paused. "I think your boyfriend is done with his shower." He finished and I swear, I could feel his eyes boring through the door.

I gasped loudly as another cold shiver went through me, surely being heard by the other two. Embarrassed, I peeked through the small opening on the door, just enough to let my face and part of my chest show. I blinked water out of my eyes as a could of steam escaped and disappeared through the gap.

I heard Christophe clear his throat and then frown, but the blush didn't escape my sight either. "Put on some clothes" was the first thing he told me.

He seemed a little stressed and maybe that was because he didn't want a stranger seeing me half naked or that the same stranger brought him some bad news. I hoped it was the first case because that would mean he was being possessive and if that's not adorable, I don't know what is. I went back into the bathroom and put on my disgusting clothes. I remerged into the room and got a better look at the visitor.

He had long silky black hair; jet black really. He was pale and was normally built, only an inch shorter than Christophe but still taller than I was. He stared straight at me and I was about to shudder when I noticed the red eye contacts he was wearing. What was that all about? If he really though they made him look cool or 'dangerous' then he was terribly mistaken. If so, someone should really tell him that 12 year old girls wear those to look like vampires. And that's what he sort of looked like actually: a vampire.

"Hello Greg." He greeted, bowing the slightest bit.

I was even going to start wondering how he knew my name because I this individual looked like the type to give vague answers and that's nothing I felt like listening to right now.

"Gregory." I corrected. "And yes, hi. I don't believe we've met."

Christophe grunted and sat down on the bed.

"You're boyfriend here doesn't want to cooperate, maybe you can help." He said slowly, like an evil villain would. His hands were kept behind his back, adding to the look. Oh, and the black clothing wasn't helping either.

"I am not the problem here." The Mole growled.

"Okay, alright, what the bloody hell is going on?" I asked, holding up my hands in front of my defensively.

"They need him back at the base, but princess doesn't wanna go." The man said in a patronizing tone that was leaning more over to the 'teasing' side and stuck out his creepy tongue out at him.

"What's wrong with the base?" I asked my Frenchman this time since this guy was starting to scare me.

In response, he chuckled unhappily at the floor and shook his head.

"Go ahead Damien, tell him where the base IS." Christophe spat smugly, a challenging smirk on his lips...that I really waned to kiss right now.

"South Park." The man named Damien answered, a slight question being raised in his tone. He didn't seem to see what exactly was BAD about that hell hole.

"South Park?" I asked in disbelief. "That cold place? With those Canadian actors?" I sounded like blubbering idiot, but a sudden wave of dismay came over me and I couldn't help but feel distressed by the idea of having to go back there with all those nutcases.

Damien blinked at me, but luckily Christophe was here and he seemed to understand.

"Yes."

"And that woman...the mom who's a bitch!" God Gregory stop talking!

"Tripe J's, yes."

"Oh Sheila." Damien added. Could it be that he was from South Park too. He wasn't ringing any bells.

"Oh!" I pointed at him. "Christophe, wasn't that the place...with those dogs..." Oh now I had done it. His face fell completely and I saw his hand go for his leg; that's where the bites were. I didn't want to bring those bad memories back, but I couldn't help it. It was all coming back to me...again. Hadn't I already had an episode like this before with him? Maybe it's just the shock of having to go back. Fuck, I did NOT want to go back.

"Sorry." I muttered.

"Bad memories." Damien hissed like a snake. "I see. But you have no choice."

There was a moment of silence and I thought it best for me not to be the one to speak up first. Christophe sighed and began to speak impatiently.

"Who was attacked?"

"I'm telling you, I have no idea." The man said, also impatiently. "He's in the hospital under intensive care"

"What does that have to do with us?" Christophe demanded.

"Are you and idiot?"

"Watch your mouth, Damien." He warned in a snarl.

"If he was attacked, the ATTACKER must be in South Park. You haven't killed him yet?"

"Obviously not, but we got rid of the other one. Trent is still out there." He lit a new cigarette.

"No shit." Damien rolled his eyes and began to rub at his neck. "Cartman should be pleased with Scott out of the way. Whatever. You mortals are retarded. I'm off, I've done my job."

Mortals? Maybe he actually did think he was a vampire...poor arrogant idiot.

Damien opened the door and walked out.

"Yes leave. Go fuck Pip or something since your otherwise useless." Christophe called after him childishly, which made me shake my head at him. He glanced back and shot us a deadly glare before slamming the door behind him.

I could almost swear I saw his eyes glow.

I turned to him only to see that his eyes were already on me. The cigarette was dangling from his lips with puffs of smoke floating out of the tip.

"We have to, don't we." I said, hoping that he would tell me otherwise.

"No other choice, Cher." He answered me sweetly. I wanted to giggle so badly but I stopped myself. I was already putty in his hands, might as well be a man doing it. Fucking sexy French fuck making me into a schoolgirl.

"Our job isn't done. We kill him and leave, okay?"

"Okay." I said reluctantly and leaned my bent my body in half to settle my forehead on his shoulder. He didn't do anything for a while and I feared being mistaken by making this small move, but then his fingers plunged themselves into my blonde locks and stroked slowly.

"Come here." He purred and fell back on the bed, pulling me down with him. "You smell nice." He said once I was laying on his chest like in the morning.

He smelled like cigarettes and cologne. It smells better than it sounds. That's his scent and it's absolutely delicious, believe it or not. I nuzzled my head in the crook of his neck to breathe in more of it and shut my eyes.

"When are we leaving?" I breathed against the soft skin.

"In two days. Bastard left the plane tickets on the table." He responded in the same husky whisper he had used the previous night.

"So we didn't have much of a choice to start with." I stated, raising my head, along with an eyebrow to look at him.

"You could say that. I just hate it when these Americans get what their way." He said stubbornly.

So turns out the whole argument with Damien was useless since apparently, he had the tickets all along, saving us half the trouble. But of course, Christophe got angry anyway (though with reason).

"Christophe..." I drawled. "May I ask you something?" I asked, my British accent coming off quite strong, even for me.

"What eez eet? What 'ave you got on yoar mind?" He teased by thickening his own accent and waggling his eyebrows. "That was very...posh, of you."

"Wasn't on purpose, love." I grinned.

"Love? That's new." He laughed.

"I suppose it is, Cher."

"Very funny." He said and pulled me closer, squishing my cheeks against his lips. The spot where he kissed me was hot even when he pulled away and I wondered if it would be okay to take it a little further.

"So...we're like this now?" I said, waving my finger between us.

"Why wouldn't we be?" He asked and was that worry I heard in his tone? I didn't want him to worry, I wanted to reassure him that it was all okay and that I was the one with the perverted mind. He could do whatever the bloody hell he wanted. It's just that Christophe seemed pure, only in that department though. I doubt he would ever lay a finger on me or even think of touching me that way. No matter how rough the exterior, Christophe was a sweetheart even though you would have to dig through layers of denial to find it.

"Just checking." I whispered and wrapped an arm around his chest. My damp hair had left a wet spot on his shirt, but he didn't seem to mind. God, he was comfortable. I decided to concentrate on that and other fluffy things. I was dangerously close to him now and that haze of lovey dovey that had us in the clouds last night having disappeared, it would be harder to conceal certain things...yes, much, much harder.

I sucked in a huge breath of relief and Christophe, but exhaling was a different story. There was lightning fast shift in our position, followed by a pair of lips on mine.

"Mmph!" I couldn't breathe and my chest hurt from my lungs being bloated for too long. I exhaled from my nose as I pushed at his chest until he got the message and pulled away.

"What is it?" He asked, looking very displeased.

"I couldn't breathe! Warn me next time you decide to attack me!"

"I am French, Gregory. We are quite the romantics and warning a person you're going to kiss them before you do is definitely NOT romantic."

It took me some time to process the fact that the Mole from my childhood, the badass kid who had a shovel and hated guard dogs, had just said 'romantic' twice, both times referring to him kissing me. Wow.

"Right." I responded. "Sorry."

With a nod, he lay back and I followed, putting my head back to its original placement.

"Hey Gregory." He called my name the second I was settled.

"What?"

"Can I kiss you? Or are you Brits so fucking impassionate that I will have to write you a letter two days before I do, letting you know of my intentions and –mmph!"

Hehe.

I kissed him.


	8. Chapter 8

Cut me open

Tell me, did you sail across the sun

Did you make it to the milky way to see the lights are fading

And that Heaven is overrated

-Train 

By the Unlucky-Charm

The chubby looking one with brown hair; that's how Christophe had described him. Apparently, he was supposed to be the one to pick us up. However, when we arrived at the arrivals gate, I could have sworn that 75% of the Denver airport population was 'chubby looking with brown hair'. Well, maybe 37,5% since some of them were women.

"That's him." Christophe said.

I followed his gaze to, of course, the sketchiest looking chubby brunette in the entire crowd.

He was wearing a red plaid lumberjack shirt that he had tucked into his old blue jeans. His cold hazel gaze travelled through the crowd and then settled on us. He smirked, as if displeased with what he saw and stuffed his hands into his pockets.

"Do you remember him?" Christophe asked as we made our way through the crowd.

"I don't think I want to." I mumbled.

When we got closer, I could tell by his cruel looking eyes that he was thinking of something really horrible to say. I don't know, he just looked like the type.

"Well, if it isn't French tart and his English muffin." He said, which wasn't all that bad, except that it made quite an awful joke. I wasn't sure if the words themselves were mean or if it was just his odd accent that made it sound that way. I could not determine what kind of 'accent' it was, though. Or was it just his annoying voice that was making that uncomfortable shiver run down my spine.

"'ow about you shut your mouth, fatass."

I had to hold in my laughter when Christophe used 'fatass'. I had never heard him say that before; his insults were usually much more colourful and...personalised.

"Ay! I ain't fat no more!"

I disagreed.

"Listen to me you America fool," Christophe growled, which made a different kind of shiver run through my spine. "I just want to get this over with , so how about we leave out all the unnecessary comments, hm?"

"Ey, that's fine with me. You're the one calling me fat." He said, raising his palms up in front of him defensively.

"Non sir, that comment was _quite_ necessary, I assure you."

A basement. Their 'HQ' was a basement. How could they deal with such important jobs, involving people's lives, in some guy's fucking basement? They were well equipped though, I could give them that. What shocked me the most was the amount of people working there. They were buzzing around all over the place like worker bees.

It was like an odd high school reunion. Each new face I saw, another mini flashback passed through my mind. The more people noticed us, more eyes began to follow. I could tell that some of them remembered me, while as some clearly had no idea who I was. I received a few nods, as well as a few glares; not everyone was happy to see me. There was this one bloke though, that looked scared out of his mind with his huge, trembling green orbs.

"Intruders! GAH!" He gasped, until some other guy whispered something in his ear. He calmed down after that but still stared at us suspiciously from the corner of his eye.

"I don't remember these people." I leaned in over his shoulder and whispered into his ear.

"Well, then I suppose we have some introductions to make." He said as we wiggled our way through a group of people. This basement was really big, I had no idea where Christophe was heading though.

"I have to meet ALL of them?" I asked. I don't want to sound like a whiny bitch, but I really didn't feel like it.

"Oui. I work a lot with these people, you need to know who they are."

I stopped walking, but just for half a second. I continued following him, but I really felt like skipping. There was only one thing that he could have possibly meant by that. If he worked so much with those people AND he wanted me to meet them, that could only be because he might need me for future jobs involving the South Park guys. So, would it be okay for me to assume that this is some kind of invitation to become his permanent partner?

As much as the thought made me want to smile, I wondered if Christophe's trains of thought were as long as mine. Did he think as far as I did about the words that left MY mouth? I doubted. He had more important things to figure out than myself.

"Ay! Whale Whore! Look what I brought." The one called 'Beefcake' yelled once we finally got through.

Stan was standing behind another person who sat in front of a computer. He had his hand on the guy's shoulder and instantly removed it when he saw us. I think I had an idea of who the person on the computer was. The boy was wearing a green hat, which I could have sworn was the same one from years ago. He had shiny eyes that matched his ushanka and a dazzling smile as well. Afterwards, I noticed the fiery strands escaping from underneath his hat and I was taken aback at how unnaturally red they were. Kyle was gorgeous. If I were Stan, I'd be gay for my best friend too.

"Oh my God, is that him...?" I heard Kyle whisper to Stan as we approached. His voice had barely changed. It had matured, that's for sure, but it kept it's slight high pitch. Besides, it seemed to suit him.

"Triple J, Whale Whore." Christophe nodded.

"Mole, we are so sorry for making you come here. Was Damien a bitch?" Triple J asked, sounding very apologetic. I caught Stan smiling discretely when Kyle spoke.

"Yes, he was, but that's okay, so was I."

Stan and I snorted out a laugh in unison.

"Sorry." We mumbled and glanced at each other before looking away.

Kyle rolled his eyes at Stan and went back to Christophe. I didn't even want to see what kind of look Mole was giving me.

"Anyway, we know T.B. is here, do you guys have a lead on Scott?"

"Yes, he's still in London. I shot him in the leg." Christophe grinned cockily. "Twice."

"So...death from blood loss?" Kyle asked, suddenly directing the question to me.

"P -possibly." I stumbled. "Dead or alive, he shouldn't be able to stand up." I answered. "Even with medical help, but I doubt he made it."

"So...Tenorman's dead?" A voice belonging to Beefcake came from behind me, sounding a little too happy.

"Maybe, fatass. Stop smiling like that. It's nothing to be excited about." Kyle reproached with a frown, which made Stan grin and stare adoringly.

Beefcake seemed to have not heard Kyle at all since he...oh! Cartman! That was his name. So Cartman seemed to have not heard Kyle all that well since his gaze froze at a random spot on the floor and his creepy grin just stretched wider. As we all stared at him, he didn't budge, then slowly turned around and walked away.

That was...disturbing.

"Who's your injured guy?" Christophe changed the subject. I too was wondering who it was.

Stan and Kyle's faces fell and they sent each other worried glances. They seemed to be having some kind of telepathic argument about who was going to answer.

Stan sighed. "It's Kitty. He was stabbed a couple of times. He's not in a coma or anything, but they give him all these drugs. He just dozes off like that sometimes...barely ever awake." He explained sadly, taking deep breaths throughout his sentences.

"Mysterion won't leave his side." Kyle added. "They're at Hell's Pass right now, you can go check, if you like."

"I want to ask...Kitty, a few questions, that is, if he is fit to answer." Christophe said without losing composure. "I'm sorry, but this is the confused one we're talking about right?"

The two other boys chuckled and nodded. "That's him." Kyle muttered. As for me, I tried figuring out (with the very little information they were giving away) who Kitty was. He was a boy, contrary to what I believed when they first mentioned the name and he was confused. Confused in what sense, I did not know yet.

"He is rather small, is he not?" My partner asked, anger rising in his tone.

"Um yeah...he's the smallest. He was like a fucking secretary, dude. Why the fuck would they target HIM?" Stan lost his straight face. His eyes filled up and he started biting at his nails frantically.

Kyle reached out and rubbed his friend's arm, lowering it down in the process to save the remaining nails from being chewed down.

Christophe decided that our first job is going to be to interrogate Kitty. He believed that the clues lied in what the victim had seen. I didn't really know how we were supposed to get information out of an unconscious person, but I hoped he had a plan.

This town was small, but I had forgotten how small it really was. When Stan told us it would just take a minute, he really meant 'just a minute'. He volunteered to drive us, but refused to go in. The ride there was very short, indeed and I'm sure we could have walked.

"It's room 266." Stan informed us. "Be nice to Myst, he's... not himself."

Hell's Pass could NOT be qualified as a hospital. I don't know, maybe it was a doctor thing since Christophe seemed to be perfectly at ease, but the whole place just made my skin crawl. To start with, it smelled like alcohol and no, not the disinfectant. Then, it didn't look all that clean with its peeling wallpaper and grimy floors. And so far, I've seen at least 15 nurses pass by and not a single doctor. The place was empty and the only sound was the buzz of the fluorescent lights above our heads. The name of the establishment suddenly made more sense to me.

When we finally found the room, I almost had a heart attack when we entered. The equipment had to be at least 20 years old. I had never seen equipment like that in my entire life except in my old textbooks in university.

"Sheet." Christophe breathed from right next to me, but I had a feeling it wasn't about the equipment.

There was a blonde boy laying there in the bed, lost in the white sheets. He had a baby face, but his hairstyle and ear piercings made him look his age. His face was battered up and pale; he could have passed for dead. He looked cold, even though I hadn't touched him, I knew he was. His stab wounds were concealed underneath the blanket, but I wasn't going to check and see if they were there. As a doctor, things like this shouldn't shock me all that much, but this...this just bothered me. This was just wrong. If it were anybody else...

"Oh God, Butters." I said a little too loud. The noise made the orange blob that lay half on the side of the mattress, half on the floor, stir from its position.

Kenny McCormick raised his head, pushing down his hood, revealing his shattered, heartbroken face. His usually gorgeous blue eyes were rimmed with bright red and squinted against the light. His face was pale as well, only with dark circles under his eyes and red blotches on his cheekbones. I couldn't tell if he hadn't been sleeping or had been crying...or both. His lips, almost by force, stretched into an eerie smile that barely lasted 2 seconds, before it fell back into a straight line.

"Hey...Buttercup, look who came to see ya'." He whispered to the boy.

"Hm?" The boy in the bed muttered and tried to open his eyelids. When he got the smallest glimpse of us, he too tried to smile.

"H-hey fellas."

Kenny's eyes watered immediately and he looked like he was going to fall into pieces. He tried to hoist himself up but even from where I was standing, I could see his forearm shake under the weight. Before I could fully take in the dreadful scene in front of me, Christophe was by his side, supporting Kenny to his feet.

"Mysterion, please hold yourself together." He said, trying to keep it professional, but I could feel the emotion welling up inside him. Even Christophe had some clinks in his armour.

"Don't call me that, man!" Kenny suddenly began to sob against Mole's chest. "I'm not superman. I can't do shit. I couldn't even save Buttercup from some amateur who can't even use a fucking gun!" His knuckles turned whiter than they already were, holding on tightly to my partner's shirt.

Broken would be the perfect word to describe Kenny at that second. It looked like someone just came in with a hammer and tried to smash him. Now, he was just trying to keep all the pieces together. My stomach tightened and I just wanted to leave the room. The only thing stopping me were the light blue eyes of the bedded young man staring straight at me.

"Gregory...?" He whispered, which caught Kenny's attention as well.

"Yeah...I'm here." I said, just a little lost. I wasn't sure if he was drugged or not.

"I...I remember..."

"Yes, I remember you too. It's been a while, hasn't it."

He chuckled. "Yeah...you helping Mole?" He sure sounded like he was drugged. Every word he spoke came out as a drawl.

"Yes, I am. I'm afraid we're going to ask you a few questions." I looked at Christophe, desperate for some help, but my gaze met Kenny's furious one and I immediately stuttered to fix whatever mistake I had just made. "Only if you're feeling alright. I-It's really not that important. No pressure."

Butters smiled at me, and for a second, he looked like the small, passive boy that I vaguely remembered from the past. Truth was, he didn't look all that different in the first place. His face had lost its baby fat, he had piercings along both his ear shells, his hair was shaved off on one side of his head, leaving the other side with long blonde bangs that seemed to be tired of being straightened every morning and the Adam's apple that kept bobbing up and down every time he laughed gave him a manlier air.

"Ken, stop scarin' 'em, would ya'?" He said. "I'll answer...but if I fall asleep...I'm real sorry, can't help it."

Kenny slowly parted from Christophe and went to sit by Butters on the bed. He grabbed the other boy's hand and held it tight. There was no reaction on Butters' part, his hand remained numb under Kenny's.

"It was Trent, I can tell you that." Butters said. "He...had this... knife."

"Did he say anything before..."

"Y-yeah...he said that now that he had gotten rid of the chick..." He gulped. "I came next."

I saw Kenny tense up next to him, but Butters still seemed to remain ignorant of Kenny's struggles. The smaller blonde began, like he had warned us, to doze off. Kenny noticed and let go of the hand and ran his fingers over his cheek instead, brushing away the strands that fell from the one side of his head. After that, Butters passed out right before our eyes.

"He called him a faggot." Kenny said. "I'm the one that found him. The guy didn't stick around. When I arrived, he just checked his watch and left right away. I fucked up dude. Maybe if I had been there sooner..."

"But then you'd be the one to get hurt and Bu –Kitty would have to suffer." I tried to reason with him, but I apparently, it wasn't the right thing to do.

Next to me, Christophe took a long, deep breath and massaged his forehead with his fingers. Did I say something wrong? He looked at me and shook his head in disbelief, like what I had said was the stupidest thing. Kenny, on the other hand, was smiling, looking very amused. He chuckled a little and made his way toward me. He slapped a hand over my shoulder and sighed with a condescending air.

"You don't remember me all that well, do you?" He whispered, teasingly.

"Of course he doesn't, it has been years." Christophe answered impatiently.

"Well, it's kind of hard to forget, don't you think?" His Cheshire cat smile appeared and paired with the reddened eyes and pale face, made him look really scary.

Christophe pulled me away from him, leaving Kenny standing alone in the middle of the room, with that smile still plastered on his face.

"It's also very hard to believe." My partner said and then we left.

We walked this time and Stan had been right, it was quite cold. I crossed my arms over my chest to preserve as much heat as I could. At least the snow was almost all gone, but that didn't help the fact that the both of us were wearing short sleeves. On the way back to HQ each person we came across did not fail to have a smirk appear on their face at the sight of us.

"We scream tourist." I said to Christophe with my teeth chattering.

"This town does not know the meaning of tourist, Cher." He laughed, and the sound was so unfamiliar, very comforting though, I almost forgot it was so cold and I laughed too.

"Come here." He said in a husky whisper that got my temperature rising in a second. I side-stepped closer to him and let him put his arm around me. Body heat is the best way to keep warm, but Christophe was as frozen as I was. The sun was setting and the light around us was fading away

"No difference." I was about to tell him, but I realised it was pointless since we were 3 houses away from the base. It was a short distance and we were almost there, so why bother right? It was a few steps away, but we had our guard down, we were so wrapped up in each other. Even Christophe hadn't seen it coming.

There was a blur of red and blonde than ran off, that I realised just then, had been following us for a while now. How had I failed to see that?

I was pushed down against the cold ground.

There were two gunshots. One hit the bark of the tree I was pushed under; right above my head.

The other bullet hit something else.

**Haha! I leave you with somewhat of a cliff hanger XD sorry, I just had to. I apologize for the delay. School was rough and I'm kind of balancing a bunch of stories at the same time. This story seems to be the most popular one though.**

**So Happy Holidays, this chapter will be your gift since I'm too poor to get my awesomesauce readers anything else. Please review! I swear I will love you forever XD**


	9. Chapter 9

Cut me open

I close both locks bellow the window

I close both blinds and turn away

Sometimes solutions aren't so simple

Sometimes goodbye's the only way

-Linking park 

By the Unlucky-Charm

**A/N. This chapter contains no action. I decided to calm things down before getting the drama started up again. I'm predicted another emotional chapter after this one too, but after that...well, I have no idea. Suggestions? Requests? Anything, just message me or let me know in the review I trust you will write...please?**

The lights in the hospital burnt my tear filled eyes. I tried to blink the water away, but they just ended up spilling over. There were only two things that were clear to me. First, that I couldn't run after the bed anymore because my knees kept buckling under me and secondly, that Christophe was in that bed, now being rolled away from me. The series of previous events wasn't a complete blur, but I still couldn't make any sense of anything.

A woman was yelling from behind me. She kept shouting 'sir', that could be anyone, but I knew it was me. I was all alone in the hallway. She took my hand and dragged me away. I didn't resist.

The nurse was pretty but had way too much makeup on. Maybe that's why she was pretty. I knew because I spent a good amount of time staring into her mascara framed eyes and begging her to let me through. I asked maybe a hundred times, but she did not budge.

She made me sit in an empty waiting room. There was no one around and the whole place just looked abandoned.

"Oh God, oh God, oh God. Please, please don't be dead." I kept muttering to myself, followed by some scowling for having brought up the possibility of death. No, Christophe could not die and even if he did, it would be too ironic for my comfort to be talking about God while he passed away. It's silly. Here I am, the only person who truly cares about him, almost praying for his life. He'd kill me if he found out.

I buried my face into my palms. I needed to think. I needed to plunge myself into my nearest memory and try to see WHAT happened exactly. I tried to concentrate, but the same events kept on coming to mind. There was a noise. I was sure of that. He was shot, I was very certain of that as well, but where? Where was he shot, damn it?

I ran my fingers through my hair, clutching at the loosened locks. My gaze met the floor and my feet. My shoes and the hem of my pants were covered in specs of drying blood. Not mine, so Christophe's, but I have no idea where it came from. There wasn't much of it so that was a relief, but there never is when it's just a splatter.

The nurse asked me if I needed anything, I told her I wanted to see him. She refused. I told her I'm his brother. She didn't believe me. I got up. I told her I'm a doctor. She hesitated, sighed and let me through.

There was no one in the room when I walked in. The nurse closed the door and I guessed she left because I couldn't feel her presence in the room anymore.

I could have sworn he was sleeping, but they had to have drugged him. I got closer. Everything was absolutely silent, like Christophe wasn't even there and that's when I realised I had been crying this whole time. I wiped the tears away; if Christophe saw, he would never let me live it down.

There was no bandaging on his face or chest, meaning the damage was done on the lower body. He was so peaceful. He even looked stunning when he was asleep. Obviously not as much since his eyes were closed and they're one of my favourite parts of him.

So, seeing as neither his brain or heart was damaged, it gave me a little more hope.

"You'll be okay, love."I whispered and stroked his face with the back of my hand.

"I know." I hoarse voice left his lips, sending me backwards, onto the loveseat behind me.

"Damn it man, you scared the bloody crap out of me! Why aren't you sleeping?"

"I held my breath when they put the mask over my face." He grinned. He was talking as if he didn't have enough air in his lungs.

"And they didn't notice?" I crossed my arms over my chest. Which idiot doctor had Christophe fallen on?

He chuckled and slowly lifted his hand to touch mine. "After seven seconds..." He took a deep breath. "I pretended to fall asleep."

I laughed too, but his touch made my heart ache. I shut my eyes at all the familiar warmth his hand spread through my whole body and the tears fell again, without me wanting them to. I sniffled and made small whimpering noises, trying to cover it up. I couldn't help it.

"How are you feeling?" I croaked.

"Cher, please do not cry... I'm fine. I'll be even better when they take the bullet out."

I was fighting at my tears, but my hand froze on my cheek after he spoke. It was as if all the raw emotion that had welled out, went flying back in. I regained my normal voice and my composure in an instant.

"What did you just say."

"The bullet is still in, so –"

"Bastards." I hissed through clenched teeth. "Why did they put you to sleep in the first place?"

"Not sure... they touched my leg a bit but then...nothing."

I spun around in place, running my eyes over everything in the room. They were idiots, there must be something... I pulled open some cabinets against the wall. Yes, it wasn't everything, but it would have to do. Was this town so bloody poor that they couldn't afford locks? I would have to get by with the small variety of equipment. I knew, not very professional sounding, but DAMMNIT they left it IN.

"How could you just let them do that!" I yelled. He looked so relaxed, it was bothering me.

"I don't trust them. I was hoping you would just..." He trailed off.

I pushed an empty cart closer to his bed and slammed my closed fist against it.

"I would just WHAT?" I growled furiously.

"Cut me open and take it out." He smiled.

Lord, he looked exhausted. His eyelids were falling as I stared at him. He didn't trust the doctor, so did that mean he trusted me?

"You scared me." I said.

"Sorry."

I watched him for a while longer before snapping out of it and getting to work.

"Where is it?"

"Left foot."

"Okay."

I checked and counted the equipment one more time before heading for the Anastasia machine. I detached the mask and let it hover over his face for a while.

"Count to 20. DON'T try anything clever or I WILL have to knock you out using a baseball bat." I set it over his mouth.

"You're sexy when you get angry and protective."

And in 10 seconds, he was out.

I wasn't sure if I needed a scalpel, but even if I did, I wouldn't touch that rusty thing, let alone cut through someone's flesh with it. I pulled the sheets off and found the wound. They had loosely wrapped a bandaged over it, pathetic work really. I removed it, which wasn't very hard either. A fucking draft could have undone that.

The wound consisted of a medium sized hole right above his ankle, very shallow, so shallow in fact that I could see bits of the bullet. His boot must have slowed does its trajectory and the gun couldn't have been very good either.

I picked up the smallest hemostat they had. The pair looked clean enough, but I couldn't quite tell because of my violently shaking hand. With my left, I grabbed my trembling wrist, but it was no use because the tremors resumed the second I let go.

"Get it together." I hissed to myself, but I wasn't the problem here. It was the person in the bed, laying there, waiting for me to do my job. I understood why Dr. Tachejian had always refused to operate on family and friends, it's a bloody gut wrenching feeling! The pressure is ten times worse than usual because it is no longer some stranger's life at stake, but part of you own.

I dropped the hemostat onto a tray and backed away from Christophe. I had to calm down. I had to, for him. I took deep breaths, pressing the bottom of my palms against my temples. It was a simple procedure. Of course, I'm sure the staff here couldn't even recognize a bullet wound. It was all an act, after all. Putting the patient to sleep and then waking him up without having done a thing.

I sucked it up. I had to, seeing as the love of my life was kind of just laying there with a bullet stuck in his leg. I grabbed a pair of rubber gloves, snapped them on and picked up the hemostat again. My hand was less shaky, but trembling nonetheless. I looked at the wound again. This would take a few minutes, really.

With my own fingers, I spread the slippery skin apart, enough for me to get the tool in. The semi-dried blood made a dreadful sound as it slid against the latex covering my fingers. It made me shudder, but I got over it quickly enough. I kept mumbling to myself that this was not Christophe, that it was just a dead person I had to practice on back in school, but that thought led to an image of Christophe dying, which was ten times worse than having to remove a bullet from his leg. I ended up pretending it was just someone else, some patient that got into some trouble, resulting in him getting shot in the leg. A random person who was at the wrong place at the wrong time. Some idiot who bothered throwing themselves at me to save my life. Just some idiot.

My idiot.

The bullet was out and my heartbeat slowly began to calm itself down with every circumference of gauze I wrapped around his ankle. Then I reached out to wake him up, but remembered it was better if I let him do that on his own. I wasn't sure how long it would take, probably hours. He'd be up by tomorrow, for sure, but until then I would have to find a place to sleep.

I had left our stuff back at HQ and there was no way I was leaving them there, but Christophe would definitely panic, so I left him a note. It consisted of a simple arrow drawn in the middle, pointing at the bloody bullet next to it with the word "culprit" written at the top. Personally, I thought it was funny. If I woke up alone after surgery, I would enjoy having a nice laugh to lighten my mood. Before I left, l planted one last kiss of his forehead.

"Gotcha." The voice from the doorway startled me, causing me to almost fall over onto Christophe.

Kenny was standing at the threshold. Tired, but smiling, he was leaning on the doorframe with his arms crossed over his chest, staring me down.

"Oh like you don't kiss Butters." I said and crossed my own arms in reply.

"Wasn't talking about the kiss." He grinned and walked up closer to me. "You're a doctor. I don't think you'd like it very much if your patient's lover walked in and performed surgery on him while you were gone."

"Yes, but like you said, I AM a doctor, not some idiot who leaves his instruments lying around." I said groggily, even though I knew the other blonde was joking around.

"Nah, I understand. The people here suck ass." He said and bumped the side of his foot gently against the doorframe, as if to show that the hospital itself was as great as its doctors. His gaze glided all around the room and he sighed. "I remember staying in this room once, don't remember what for though."

I frowned at him but he was too busy staring nostalgically at the room to notice. It was like it was a second home to him, one he had to leave a long time ago and was seeing again. I found it odd that someone could show any form of positive feeling toward such a dreadful place, a place in which they had suffered, but it all seemed almost comical to Kenny McCormick.

What was even odder was how he couldn't remember the reason why he was staying there. The feeling of pain is very much like love; it stays with you for a while. It's very hard for a person to forget suffering and hurt, just like it's hard to forget a person you once cared for...

I felt a strong jabbing feeling in my chest because that's what you feel when you know you're lying to yourself. I was being a hypocrite, the exact type of person I hate the most. I let my thoughts wander off like that, making me sound like some cheap knock off of a philosopher when I couldn't even recognize the face of the first person I ever loved. I should have known it was him the second I waltzed into that emergency room and saw him cussing in rage.

"Where are you staying tonight?" Kenny cut my train of thought short.

"No clue." I mumbled, my lips barely moving. My eyes were glued on the man lying before me.

"Where's your stuff."

"Headquarters."

I was using only a small part of my brain to be able to answer him. All the rest was concentrated on Christophe. What the hell was it? What the hell was it that made me forget him?

"How come I couldn't remember him Kenny?" I asked, out of the blue. The part of my mind had taken control of my words, blurting out whatever crossed it.

For a second, he didn't say a word. I couldn't see his face though, so I wasn't sure if he was a little lost or if he was actually thinking of an answer. Either way, I wasn't expecting one. The silence got too intense and I was going to explode if he didn't say anything soon. My fingers were clutching the plastic railings of the bed and my knuckles were turning whiter with every quiet second that passed.

"Well, you guys hadn't seen each other in a long time. I heard he hadn't remembered you either."

He was right. Christophe hadn't known who I was either. Which means that it's not really my fault if...

No. Kenny was wrong and so am I. Christophe hadn't forgotten about me, he just hadn't recognized me, which is perfectly normal. I, for one, had completely blocked him out of my thoughts. I had stored him far away in the dark corners of my mind. The memory of Christophe was almost like a dream.

"Yeah..." I breathed out because I didn't feel like discussing my insecurities with Kenny of all people. He had a lot going on already, we were in the same boat really, and I wasn't going to start bothering him with my own self inflicted problems. "Are you going home?" I asked him.

"No, why?"

"I need a place to stay for the night."

He chuckled. "There is no way I'm leaving Butters' side."

"Christophe would kill me if I didn't get some sleep"

"That so?" He reached into his pocket and pulled out some keys. "Here." He threw them to me.

"Thank you."

"It's the old red pick up. You can't miss it, there are only three cars in the parking lot."

"Right then."

I walked passed him but the only footsteps I heard were mine. Instead I felt his gaze on me.

"You know, I think it was harder for him to forget you than the other way around." He paused. "I'm not blaming you or anything..."

I stopped and waited for a few more seconds. It had sounded like he was about to explain himself, but when he didn't, I thought that maybe he wanted me to ask him a question so he can go on. Usually, I would have, but I was just so damn exhausted. This whole day was a blur to me. It felt like only a few hours had passed and yet it was close to midnight and the dreadful morning was far away in the past.

When Kenny had said 'old pick up truck' he should have used the word ancient instead. The thing looked like it had been passed on through 4 generations, each one a bigger hillbilly than the other. The inside smelled horrible and honestly, I was terrified of even starting it. The whole bloody thing seemed to be just one big death trap.

However, to my surprise, it worked just fine. It made a few noises here and there, but the HQ wasn't far from the hospital so the machine didn't get a chance to try and kill me. All the lights of the house were shut except for the one in the living room. I knocked gently and almost instantly, a middle aged woman appeared and let me in without a word. She jerked her head towards the basement when she realised I was a newcomer.

The basement was dark and empty, lit only by a few computer screens left open. I crept down the steep stairway, holding on tightly to the ramp. I wasn't even halfway down when I heard a lot of rustling as a shadow shuffled across the room. Someone was still there, but who? And why were they walking around in the dark?

I took a few more steps down and the rustling continued, stopped when I did, and then started up again.

"Hello?"

"Ngh –wh...what do you want?"

"Um...nothing?"

There was a gasp and suddenly all the lights came on.

"GAH!" The boy standing right by me shouted.

"Jesus!" I started in return. How the hell had he gotten so close? I hadn't even noticed...

"AGH! KYLE!" He yelled extending his arm behind him where Kyle sat, asleep at his screen. The boy didn't even break eye contact with me, he kept his wavering, dark green eyes staring straight at me.

The redhead was roused awake, grumbling and cussing here and there.

"Ugh, Tweek. What's wrong now?" He said, rubbing at his eyes and stretching.

'Tweek' did not say a word and instead pointed at me, making odd whimpering noises.

"Hm? Oh. Hey Gregory." He greeted me hazily.

"Hello. Um, I'm here to get my stuff."

"Right. We put them there, in the corner. Did you walk here?"

"Kenny gave me his car."

"Oh, that's nice. Are you going back now?"

I wanted to answer, but I was hesitant. That Tweek boy kept looking at me, frankly I felt a little uncomfortable. He looked scared out of his mind, just like he had when I first walked into the HQ this morning.

"Um...no. I need a place to stay." I paused. "And someone to talk to." I felt ridiculous asking for something so stupid, but I had several questions on my mind. Questions that I couldn't really bring myself to ask Christophe.

"K –Kyle... he's nice...ngh –to talk to." Tweek muttered.

The man in questions chuckled and massaged his temples with the bottom of his palms. "Yes, thanks Tweek. Greg can stay with me."

I didn't point it out because the man was being kind enough to let me stay at his house even though he hasn't seen me for 16 years and for all he knows I might be some kind of Nazi murderer, but I absolutely hate 'Greg'. I do. I just hate it, it makes me flinch every time. I don't know why Americans feel this need to shorten everything, such as Gregory to Greg, Christophe to Chris, Stanley to Stan, Samantha to Sam. How can they even distinguish girl names from boy names, since both Christine and Christophe could turn into the dreadful 'Chris'.

"Thank you." I said.

He must have seen me react because he grimaced and rolled his eyes at me. "Sorry, Gregory." He said, putting emphasis on my name. "I didn't know you were like Mole about that whole name thing."

"Yes well... thank you."

I insisted on driving since my companion was on the verge of falling back asleep at any second now. I thought maybe I'd let him rest on the way to his house, but then I came to realise that I had no idea where he lived.

"Talk to me so I won't fall asleep."

"Um, alright. About what?"

"Well, there's obviously something you want to say. Didn't you need somebody to talk to? Right here."

The mechanism of the car complained as I forced its wheels to rotate. The car didn't sound too happy, but it still did the job just fine.

"Yes, there is actually. I need you to tell me about Christophe. Everything and anything you remember about his past, about me, about him now, whatever pops into mind. I'm kind of desperate here."

He seemed a little taken aback by my request. He frowned and bit down on his lip, looking at me from the corner of his eyes.

"Left."

I turned left and at the 3rd house, he made me stop. His house looked exactly like the other ones in the whole town, maybe a little bigger. On the upper floor, there was a bedroom with a dim night light shining in the corner. A smaller figure was crouched down, I presumed on the bed, reading.

"That your brother?"

"Yeah, Ike."

Unlike most of the people I set eyes on in South Park, Ike triggered not a single memory, not even a vague one. I could not even remember Kyle having a brother.

We walked in, only after he unlocked the door with four different keys. These people were serious about security, but any one would be after finding out that a murderer was after them.

"I don't know much about his past. I remember he smoked since he was nine and hated on God a lot. More than a nine year old should. You guys were a team I think... then you went away and he kind of fell apart."

"What? Why?"

"Well you guys were best friends, so it hurt. It must have affected you too."

"Not really. No."

"How come?"

I sat down on his couch and buried my face into my palms. "That's what I'm trying to find out." I paused, looked up and realised he had no idea what I was talking about. "He remembered me, but did not recognize me. It took me forever to remember who he was. I had completely forgotten about him and since apparently we were extremely close, I want to know WHY. Why did he remember and not me?"

"I see..." He sat down next to me. Reading his face, I saw he was struggling to find the right words to answer me. It was a complicated situation, one that did not concern him, but at this point, he was the only being in South Park, with a brain big enough to help me.

"I guess he just wouldn't stop missing you and thinking about you. He never said this obviously, but for the short time he remained in South Park, he wasn't all too happy. He moved away later, wanting to forget the war and the dogs and we didn't see him for the longest time, until we needed his assistance again." He paused and shook his head with a sad smile. "I guess when you left, you started a new life. We just kept on dragging ourselves in the same direction."

I didn't react to his words, but only because they weren't much help. Kyle was narrating, giving me the obvious facts, but never looking into anything. I pretty much knew the story by now, what I needed were some details. Kyle sighed and stood up. He paced around the coffee table, mumbling things to himself, and then, 2 minutes later, my ears caught something in the jumble of words he was whispering to himself while he thought.

"Say that again." I said.

"...he was secretly gay for you?"

"No! The other part. You said something about his knife."

"Oh, yeah. He stared at the knife a lot. He called it "the only physical evidence that proved that you weren't just a dream"."

Yes, a dream. That's what he was to me when I first remembered his name. Christophe DeLorne was nothing but a dream. I was wrong of course, but that's what it all seemed like in the beginning. Like he was some kind of fictional hero character from an old comic book I had left lying around in my attic. Yes, that knife was perfect. That way he would never forget me or question my presence (or in this case absence) in his life. I did not have such an object. If I did, I would know who he was the second I saw him and he cussed at me with a colorful French accent.

"I didn't have a knife."

"Yeah, obviously since he had yours."

"No, I mean I didn't have anything to remember him by. Naturally I wouldn't have remembered him! I was NINE! It was 16 years ago and I didn't even have a bloody picture of him."

I was ecstatic. Well, not really, more relieved than anything. I was happy to know that I wasn't some heartless bastard that forgot all about his best friends, but that I was instead, a poor bastard who wasn't given a choice but to forget.

"Are you sure?"

"Well yes, I think I'd know if I had something of his." I scoffed.

"Hm, yeah...I guess. I just think it's weird that he had something to remember you by, but you didn't."

**Please review, they make Butters feel better faster Also, small warning, my next chapter is going to be mega emotional.**


End file.
